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RECORDS 



OF 



THE HEART. 



BY 



MRS. SARAH ANNA LEWIS 




NEW-YORK : 

D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA : 
GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT-STREET. 

"%/ AI.DCaC.XLIV ^?/7> 










S 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, 

By Daniel Appleton & Co., 

In the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New-York. 




John F. Trow &Co., Printers, 
No. 33 Ann-street, N. Y, 



PREFACE. 



Some of the minor pieces contained in this volume 
have appeared, within the last two or three years, in 
different papers and periodicals ; some anonymously, and 
others with the author's name. From the favor with 
which they have been received, and from the earnest 
solicitations of friends, and those on whose learning, 
taste, and judgment the author could rely, she has been 
induced to present this volume to the public. 

Troy, N. Y., Jan. J 844. 



CONTENTS, 



Page 

Florence ....... 1 

Zenel 49 

Melpomene ....... 83 

Sappho ....... 109 

Laone ........ 119 

The Bride of Guayaquil . 133 

Gertrude ....... 153 

Emilie . . . . . . 159 

Ianthe ....... 167 

Edith 173 

Lais 179 

II. My love for thee . . . . 183 

III. Impromptu ...... 184 

IV. The heart's worst pang .... 185 
The Misanthrope .... = . 187 
The Forsaken 193 



VI CO N T E NTS. 

Page 

Fugitive Pi.eces . . . . . .399 

The Ruins of Palenque ..... 201 

Dreams of Italy ...... 206 

Stanzas on reading Griswold's Poets of America . 217 

The Maiden's Grief 221 

The Request ...... 223 

My own Guitar ...... 225 

Impromptu, on being unable to find the grave of Margaret 

M. Davidson in the burying-ground at Saratoga Springs 226 

The Maiden's Revery ..... 227 

The spot I love best ...... 229 

Love's Spell ...... 230 

The Lovers ....... 233 

To E. ...... . 234 

To Thea ....... 236 

To Mary ....... 238 

I feel alone ....... 240 

Lines on seeing the Inconstant weeping . . . 243 

When we give up the dead ..... 245 

The Ruin ....... 246 

Melancholy — a Sonnet ...... 248 

The General on his Bier ..... 249 

Maiden, since I saw thee last .... 251 

The Storm ...... 253 



FLORENCE. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

This Poem is founded on an Italian Tradition, related to 
me by a native of Florence. The time occupied is two months. 
The scene commences on the banks of the Tiber, near Rome 
— shifts thence to Sicily, and thence back to the Tiber. 



FLORENCE: 

AN ITALIAN TALE 



miserabile visu. 

iENEID. 

-Trovo per tutto 



dualche scoglio a temer. 

Metastasio. 



Canto I. 

THE CASTLE. 



I. 

Where yellow Tiber rolls his tide 
Onward in smooth tranquillity, 

Through myrtle groves and meadows wide, 
Defying mutability ; 

Which long hath laid her mould-clad finger 

On aught else death hath left to linger, 



RECORDS OF THE HEART, 

Where Art and Genius had their birth — 
The loveliest, fairest spot on earth — 
The flocks are gathered to their fold, 
The fawns reposing on the wold ; 
The bells are rung, the mass is said, 
The evening vespers duly made ; 
In hut, and cot, and castle dun, 
Sleep hath her silent reign begun ; 
The Moon is in her summer glow, 
And meekly smiles on all below, 
The stars are burning in the sky 
Like Angels' censers lit on high ; 
While weeping lovers lift their eyes 
Up to those calm cerulean skies, 
Feeling that in those worlds above 
Lies the unchequered home of love ; 
And in their frenzy of despair 
Implore to be translated there, 
Where soul" its kindred soul will greet, 
And baffled hearts each other meet, 
Enfranchised from the ills of earth — 
The children of a holier birth ; 
And there, beneath the moon's pale sheen 
Rises full many a mournful scene — 
The wide Campagna dim and lone — 



FLORENCE, 

The Catacomb of nations gone, 
And Rome's seven hills o'er Ruin's hearth, 
The mimic Pleiades of earth ; 
The cypress in funereal gloom 
O'erhanging many a hero's tomb, 
Whose glorious memory shall outlive 
All that vain pomp and wealth can give, 
And shine until Time's latest day, 
A halo over dark decay. 
Yes, there they sleep ! th' immortal brave, 
Entombed in holy Freedom's grave- — 
The mighty arm that grasped the sword 
To put to flight the savage horde, 
The tongue that pleaded with applause 
For liberty and God's high laws — 
Ceesar and Tully, when — oh ! when 
Will such bright stars lume earth again ? 
There thrones and temples lie around, 
There wrecks of empires strew the ground ; 
Decay and Slavery have wed, 
And Genius rests her drooping head ; 
And placid Beauty still appears, 
Meek smiling through her limpid tears, 
And Death sits throned on Glory's tomb 
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of joy and bloom. 



RECORDS OF THE HEART 



II. 



By Tiber, Ugo's castle stands, 

Surrounded by an olive grove, 
And glassy seas, and myrtled strands — 

The hallowed shrine of Peace and Love. 
The guards are dozing round the wall, 
Nor lamp nor step is in the hall, 
And at this late and lonely hour 
One waning light reveals the tower ; 
And there, her rosary completed, 
Lord Ugo's only child is seated ; 
Her untuned harp and jewels nigh, 
A web of rich embroidery, 
And flowers that breathe around the room 
From golden vases sweet perfume. 
She weeps not, but her restless eye 
Betrays her deep anxiety ; 
Now lost in thoughtful mood she sits — 
Now hurried o'er the carpet flits — 
Then by the lattice bends her ear — 
" A step ?— 'Tis he !" O God ! her fear 
If Ugo should her lover spy, 
This night — this night, they both must die ! 



FLORENCE. 



Her slight frame like the aspen shook, 
And Reason half her throne forsook ; 
With terror pale — with sorrow drunk, 
Reeling, upon the couch she sunk. 



Ill 



'Tis past ! Leon is in her room — 

A stately youth in manhood's bloom, 

With cloak of black and hood of blue, 

And hair and eye of sablest hue ; 

And by his side a sabre gleaming, 

And from his eye his high soul beaming, 

Lighting his lofty olive brow 

Paling with apprehension now — 

" Be calm ! sweet Florence, do not fear ; 

The wall is scaled, and I am here/' 

He said, half drawing from its sheath 

His blade, " thy champion until death ; 

Nor have I breath or time to waste — 

Nay, prudence bids me be in haste ; 

A few words only can I say, 

Which I could trust none to convev — 

Words far too pure — too sacred — dear, 



RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

For other ears than thine to hear — 
Wilt thou be mine ? — forever mine ? — 

Speak, fairest ; Angels hover near, 
From thy sweet lips love's pledge divine 

To waft unto a holier sphere. 
Oh ! is the smile in that bright eye, 
That cheek's soft blush my bless'd reply ?- 
Now I am happy ! come what will, 
Life hath for me nor storm nor ill. 



IV 



I know the grudge and lasting ire 
Thy father bears my haughty sire ; 
The danger of a secret union — 
Ay, e'en if known, this brief communion ; 
That if discovered, Ugo's wrath 
And hate will fatal prove to both : 
But, dearest, this shall part us never — 
Death — only death — our fate shall sever ! 

To-morrow, e'en before the dawn 
Awakes the lark upon the lawn, 
My ship will sail for Sicily, 



FLORENCE. 

Where two months absent I must be, 
Ere I return to Italy, 
And, lovely Florence, back to thee. 
Twice thirty days just from this night, 
Prepare thee for a speedy flight : 
When bells proclaim the vesper hour, 
Be near the Tiber, in the bower 
Where, by the stars and pale moonlight, 
Before we've met, on many a night ; 
And ready there my bark shall be, 
To bear us swiftly o'er the sea 
To some bright land afar to dwell — 
Till then, sweet maiden, fare thee well." 

"Must — must we part?" — the pallid maid 
Raised her dark eyes and trembling said, 
" Oh ! I would rather die to-night, 
Than thou should'st leave one hour my sight. 
I fear the guilt — I feel the woe, 

To love thee 'gainst my father's will ; 
He bids me swear it to forego — 

I swear, and doubly love thee still. 
He bids me wrench thee from my heart, 
But in that act would life depart. 
With thee to live — with thee to die, 1 



8 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Whether beneath our native sky, 

Or in some wild, forsaken land — 

In cave, or isle, on desert strand, 

Is all I wish, is all I hope, 

Whate'er the ills with which we cope : — 

Oh ! must thou go ? Will the dark sea, 

Dear Leon ! give thee back to me ? — 

I know not why — I fear no more, 

Leon, thou'lt see Italia' s shore." 

" O Florence ! fairest ! speak not thus — 

The grave alone can sever us ; 

My journey shall be brief, and then 

I will not part from thee again, 

Nor now in soul : as o'er his track 

The Hadjee's spirit stealeth back 

To worship still at Mecca's shrine, 

Or faithful Jew's to Palestine ; 

So, wandering o'er the dark blue sea. 

My spirit will return to thee. 

When thou art singing in the grove, 

When thou dost tune thy harp to love, 

Then hovering nigh my soul shall be, 

To catch the heavenly melody ; 

When evening shade the green earth dims, 



FLORENCE. ^ 

When slumber sweet enchains thy limbs, 
It will be here to guard thy form, 
And save thee, loveliest one, from harm." 
He said, and as quick tears did start, 

And overrun each silken lid, 
He clasped her sobbing to his heart, 

While down his cheeks the bright drops slid. 
To hearts wrapt in such holy dream, 
Ages could but a moment seem ; 
So lost to every thing around, 
They might not hear the earthquake's sound. 
Around his neck her white arms wreathed — 
Save that at intervals they breathed, 
As sympathy their bosoms heaved, — 
One looking on would have believed 
Them alabaster figures there, 
Which Art had wrought with strictest care : 
Love prompts him ever thus to stay, 
Now Danger urges him away ; 
And from the hallowed spell he started, 

As at the tread of armed men, — 
One long embrace — and then they parted 

To meet — but never thus again. 



1* 



10 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



V. 



Morn is abroad, the sun is up, 
The dew fills high each lily's cup ; 
Ten thousand flowerets springing there 
Diffuse their incense through the air, 
And smiling hail the morning beam ; 
The fawns plunge panting in the stream, 
Or through the vale with light foot spring ; 
Insect and bird are on the wing, 
And all is bright, as when in May 
Young Nature holds a holiday. 



VI. 

The rising tide with heavy flow 
From sea to shore rolls to and fro, 
And wailing, breaks upon each shoal, 
Like Sorrow's tempests o'er the soul. 
Afar upon the restless sea, 
Bound to iEtnean Sicily, 
Lord Leon's bark with swelling sail 
Walks on before the rushing gale, 



FLORENCE. 11 



Across the brine, where wildly tost 

On rocks ^Eneas' fleet was lost. 2 

On — on she flies, before the wind, 

The main ahead, the shore behind, 

Receding to a misty speck. 

The sailors gather on the deck, 

To see their native land go down, 

The watery world around them thrown ; 

And once again, with tearful eye, 

A farewell to their country sigh. 

On the lofty poop Lord Leon sits, 

His elbow resting on his knee ; 
And when the wave no more permits 

Him sight of sunny Italy, 
He takes his lute, and sweeps its chords, 
Chanting these few and simple words. 

SONG. 

Thou hast faded from my sight, 

Fair Italy ; 
But still, thy star shines bright 

To me — to me. 

Thy sweetest, fairest flower, 
My Italy, 



12 RECORDS OF THE HEART 

I'll pluck soon from its bower 
In secrecy; — 

And bear it to some isle 
Far o'er the sea, 

To feast upon its smile 
Unceasingly. 



VII. 

And while he sang, a minstrel old, 
Whose wrinkled brow a dark tale told 
Of wrong and agony, drew near, 
To give his song attentive ear. 



VIII. 

His frame was bowed, his limbs were weak, 
Sorrow had furrowed deep his cheek ; 
And o'er his thin, dishevelled hair, 
That bore no marks of recent care, 
His beard that on his bosom hung, 
A century her frost had flung. 



FLORENCE. 13 



Perchance he was descendant of 

The wandering tribe of troubadours, 

Who sang of war and ladye love, 
And knightly feats on Paynim shores. 



IX. 

His harp he loosened from his arm, 
And while he eyed young Leon's form, 
His every movement closely scanned, 
He touched the strings with trembling hand. 

SONG. 

In Sicily there lives a maid 

Of youth and beauty rare; 
With step as light as Elfin fawn's, 

With form beyond compare. 

Her hair is like the fairest flax, 

Her skin like ivory, 
Her cheeks more fresh than freshest rose 

Of spicy Araby. 

Her sire — he is of noble birth, 
His gold and lands are great; 



14 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Young Rosalie the only heir 
Of all his high estate. 

And many a lofty knight, and lord, 
And baron of the land, 

Have sought upon their bended knee 
That lovely lady's hand. 

But she doth turn away from all, 
With a tear in her blue eye, 

And vows that she will never wed 
But the Lord of Italy. 

He is a youthful nobleman, 
Who follows much the sea, 

And often anchors in the bay 
Of rocky Sicily. 

'Tis said he soon will wed a maid 

Fair as his native sky — 
If this be so, young Rosalie 
With grief will pine and die. 

X. 

The song lit up Lord Leon's eye, 

His pulse beat quick — he knew not why ; 



FLORENCE. 15 



He gently waved the harper near, 
That he the song might better hear ; 
Prayed, if it were not too much pain, 
The minstrel would repeat the strain. 
The veteran moved his harp along, 
Twice o'er again he sang the song ; 
And while Lord Leon lauds his skill, 
Thoughts dark and vain his bosom thrill. 



XI. 



" Where dost thou dwell? where hast thou been? 

A minstrel so infirm and gray 
As thou, before I ne'er have seen 

Or heard of, save in harper's lay 
Or legend old ;" the youthful lord 
With gentle seeming asked the bard. 



XII. 
" Stranger ! in sooth this frame is weak 



These trembling limbs great age bespeak 
Yet oft I dare the stormy deep, 



16 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And strive my mournful lyre to sweep. 
Save it, my only source of bliss, 
I roam the world companionless ; 
The minstrel's fire, his dreams divine, 
His heritage of woe are mine. 
Stranger ! for years my care hath been, 
The heart from love's despair to win ; 
My harp on Hellas' shore I've strung, 
Afar in Palestine have sung ; 
And where the Hakim's art hath failed, 
My melody hath oft prevailed ; 
Me far on land and sea they've sought, 
Many the mighty cures I've wrought, 
And timid love to wedlock brought. 



XIII. 

I have been to Ausonia's shore, 

To heal the lovely Emilie ; 
To Sicily am crossing o'er, 

To see the Lady Rosalie. 
And when I dissipate her fears, 
Relieve her heart, and dry her tears, 
By speaking many a cheering word 



FLORENCE. 17 

Of love, and the young noble lord, 

I shall return to Italy 

To soothe the mournful Emilie." 

XTV. 

" I'd fain, sweet minstrel, thou would'st call, 
And sweep thy lyre in Ugo's hall ; 
There dwells a lady young and fair, 
Who'll give thy song attentive ear." 

XV. 

" Thy will, young lord, shall be obeyed," 
The aged harper calmly said ; 
And as the vessel cleaved her way, 
To Leon many a tender lay 
He sang, of each wild storied clime, 
And chivalry of olden time : 
The beauty of fair Rosalie, 
And her high state beyond the sea. 

XVI. 

Arrived at last, the happy crew 
Salute the land that glads their view : 



18 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

When safely anchored in the bay, 

With trembling footsteps from the shore, 
The hoary minstrel leads the way, 

Unto the lady's castle door ; 
There tunes his harp, and to its sound 
Comes Rosalie with blithesome bound, 
Hope smiling in her soft blue eye, 
Her mein all joy — all ecstasy ; 
By blushes deep her thoughts confest, 
While ushering in her bard and guest. 



XVII. 

The bounties spread before them here, 
The flowing bowl, and welcome cheer, 
The banquets rich, and festivals 
That nightly fill the sumptuous halls, 
In honor of the noble guest, 
Who like a monarch is caressed ; 
The minstrel's arts, and subtle wiles, 
The witchery of the lady's smiles, 
The magic of her lofty grace, 
Her fatal charms I need not trace : 



FLORENCE. 19 



But all the fickleness of Love, 
How very faithless he can prove 
To those he makes his warmest vows, 
To what false shrines man often bows, 
And what the youthful lord befel 
For wedding the " Sicilian belle," 
The sequel of this tale will tell. 



Canto II. 

THE BANK OF THE TIBER 



dual guerra di pensieri 
Agita l'alma mia. 

Metastasio. 



I. 

The waves are smooth, the wind is calm, 
Onward the golden stream 1 is gliding, 

Amid the myrtle and the palm 2 
And dices 3 its margin hiding ; 

Now sweeps it o'er the jutting shoals 

In murmurs, like despairing souls ; 



20 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Now deeply, softly flows along, 

Like ancient minstrel's warbling song ; 

Then slowly, darkly, thoughtfully, 

Loses itself in the mighty sea. 

The sky is clear, the stars are bright, 

The moon reposes on her light ; 

On many a budding, fairy blossom, 

Are glittering evening's dewy tears, 
Like sparkling gems on Beauty's bosom, 

When she in festal garb appears. 
The summer flowers, in freshest bloom, 

Like modest virgins smiling there, 
Are breathing all around perfume 

Upon the mute enamored air ; 
The citron-trees along the strand, 

With golden fruitage brightly teem ; 
The lilies in the water stand, 

Watching their shadows in the stream, 
And ring the while their tiny bells, 
As round their feet the billow swells. 

II. 

And, there beneath a cypress tree, 

The beautiful young Florence stands, 



FLORENCE. 21 

In silence watching wistfully 

The waves that wash the sparkling sands : 
Her velvet robe, deep wrought with gold, 
Falling in many a graceful fold ; 
Her sable tresses flowing back 
Beneath a cap of velvet black ; 
A diamond on her high brow gleaming, 
A brilliant on her bosom beaming, 
Give her so stately, rich a mein, 
That she might vie with Egypt's queen, 
When sailing on the Cydnus she 
Went forth to meet Mark Antony. 



III. 

The Moon is past her zenitn now, 
The dew is heavy on each bough, 
And ill at ease the lady seems ; 

Oft upland down the lawn she paces, 
Then sudden starts as one that dreams, 

Or some unwelcome thought retraces, 
And stills her heart, and leans her ear 
The long expected oar to hear ; — 
But all is silent as the grave, 



22 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Nor boat, nor oar disturbs the wave, 

To intimate her lover near, 

Or soothe her agonizing fear. 

With both white hands she clasps her brow, 

As hope were quenched forever now, 

And peace were lost beyond recall — 

" 'Tis so ! 'tis so ! — I see it all !— 

Ere this I've feared it might be so — 

False Leon ! canst thou strike such blow? 

I had a dream — a troubled dream — 

In which I saw thy dark eyes beam 

Upon a fair Sicilian Maid, 

In her white nuptial robes arrayed ; 

I saw her at the altar stand — 

I saw thee take her lily hand, 

And joyous hailed the morning light 

Which broke the vision of that night ! 

Yet oft to me it would return, 

And overwhelm my soul in wo ; 
But then the vision I would spurn, — 

For oh ! I could not deem it so ! 
But ere the dawning of the morrow 
'Twill prove an omen of my sorrow. — 

My faithful page, come hither, come ! 
This long delay may seal our doom ; 



FLORENCE. 

Mount thee upon the fleetest steed, 
And with the winged lightning's speed, 
To Count Gudoni's castle go, 
And what betideth let me know." — 
She said, and in her wildered state, 
Unnoticed passed the castle gate, 
And by the watchful mastiffs' lairs. 
Tripped lightly o'er the marble stairs, 
Flew through the corridor's dim gloom, 
And safely reached her distant room. 
Upon the silken couch she fell, 
And strove her torturing doubts to quell ; 
But easier 'tis the waves to still 

That roll amid the stormy ocean, 
Than subjugate unto the will 

The troubled bosom's wild commotion ;- 
Sprung up and flung aside her hood — 

Paced rapidly across the floor — 
Then stopped — before her mirror stood, 

And while she scanned her beauty o'er, 
By dress so richly now displayed, 
Revenge and Pride called to her aid. 
With hasty step and firm intent, 
Unto a secret casket went, 
A little packet thence withdrew — 



21 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Love's tokens dear, whilst yet deemed true — 
The foldings which its contents hid 
Quickly with trembling hand undid ; 
Over each missive glanced her eye, 
Then for another dashed it by ; 
And when she recognized each line 
That erst to her appeared divine, — 
Learned well how little such are worth, 
She laid them all upon the hearth ; — 
The miniature of Leon put 

Upon the medley fated pyre ; 
Stamped it with her indignant foot 

And strength of slighted love's keen ire. 
Gold chains, and gems, and costly pearl, 
The locket with his ebon curl ; 
Stript from her hand a diamond ring, 
With each memento that might bring 
A tender thought, or transient scene 
Of one who had so faithless been ; 
Then to the pile the torch applied, 
And round them while the swift flames glide, 
Like lightning ere the thunders roll, 
Effacing casket, gem, and scroll, 
Each chain becomes a livid thread ; 
With low, unfaltering voice she said — 



FLORENCE. 25 

" O Leon ! I could see thy soul 

Writhe in thy frame, girt round by fire, 

Calmly as I behold thy scroll, 
Beneath that fatal flame expire ;" 

Then sank upon the ottoman, 

And watched the blaze as on it ran ; 

Love's gilded tokens all consuming, 

But not his fiery pangs entombing. — 

No ! deep within her throbbing heart, 

Quivering hangs his poisoned dart, 

Sore wounding though it doth not kill, 

And yet to cure defying skill ; 

It sends its victim forth to roam, 

A drifting wreck on life's rough foam, 

In passion's wildest tempests whirled, 
A raving maniac through a ruthless world. 



IV 



"But list! — =my page! — be still my heart! 
To feign is now thy only part. — 
What do I fear 1 Why tremble so 1 
Whence this new ague-fit of wo ? 
Hs'll only tell what now I know — 



26 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

What dreams have taught me long ago, 
The songs the minstrel sang to me, 
Who late came o'er from Sicily. 
I knew not why, but as he sung, 

The bridal song of Rosalie 
Seemed in my ear the larum rung 

Of some approaching misery. 
Prophetic was its every tone, 
And mournful as the midnight moan 
Of tempest midst the forest lone :— 
But all too vain — such pondering ! 
I'll hear whatever my page may bring — 
No fiercer pangs my heart can feel, 
Though death to-night my doom should seal V 



The page approached at her command, 
And kneeling kissed her snowy hand, 
An anxious glance upon her flung, 
And thus began with faltering tongue 

VI. 

" In Count Gudoni's spacious hall 
Rise loud the sounds of festival. 



FLORENCE. 27 

The silvery lamps are burning bright — 
Lord Leon hath returned to-night, 
And like a Peri by his side, 
I saw his fair Sicilian Bride — 

Her brow" 

" Enough, my page, His well, 
What further passed thou needst not tell ; — 
Peace to Lord Leon and his bride," 
Firmly, yet softly, she replied ; 
" My secret keep — for if one breath 
My sire should learn, 'twill cause my death ; — 
Refrain thy tears — weep not for me — 
Myself am calm : — now to thy bed, 
With Heaven's best blessing on thy head." 



VII. 

The faithful page dropped on his knee, 

And said, while tears suffused his eye, 
" My life is consecrate to thee, 
Whate'er thy future destiny. 
Long may thy cheek retain its bloom, 
Nor aught but joy thine eyes illume;" — 
Rose, bowed, and vanished from the room, 



2S 



RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



VIII. 

" Alone !" she cried, but all was o'er, 
And cold and prostrate on the floor, 
Like one overthrown by instant death, 
She fell ; nor showed she pulse, or breath, 
Or sign of life, till morning bright 
Had filled her room with rosy light. 
Bewildered then and ashy pale — 
As some wan spirit of the vale, 
The livelong night in shadowy lea 
Carousing in griefs revelry; — 
As one who wakes from sleep elysian, 
When hideous images have crossed 
Abruptly o'er the mental vision, 

And all his thoughts in chaos tost ; — 
Or rocked upon the stormy streams 
That rush along the land of dreams; 
Or starting from protracted trance, 
Flings round a wild and hurried glance — 
She woke : blood on her lip, and hair, — 
Upon her pallid brow despair ; 
Up quickly from the carpet sprung, 



FLORENCE. 



29 



Backward her raven tresses flung, 
Erased each mark and every speck 
That could betray her heart's sad wreck, 
Or she her room that night had left, 
And of life's all had been bereft; 
Doffed the rich garb that yesterday 

(With yesterday, oh ! had life flown !) 
Her charms so lovely did display ; 

Night's white apparel then put on, 
Ran mutely o'er her beads of gold, 
Till one and all were strictly told ; 
A golden cross placed on her breast. 
Then laid her weary limbs to rest 



IX. 

At dressing hour she turned her head 
And to her maidens gently said — 
" Hie ye away with footsteps light : 
The hideous visions of the night 
Have from my eyelids driven rest;"— 
And then again her pillow pressed. 



30 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



X. 



The morn was past, day on the wane, 
When her attendants came again 
With invitation to attend 

That night in Count Mononi's hall, 
Where Leon and his bride would lend 

The charm unto the festival 



XI. 

" Could it be so V 9 She gasped for breath. 

Had she received a hest for death, 

An irresistible command 

To hasten to the exile's land, 

Where Hope and Mercy never smiled, 

Her heart could not have beat so wild. 

Tumultuous was her bosom's swell, 

Her arm like alabaster fell 

Down on the snowy vesture then — 

As wan as it, save where each vein 

Beneath its soft transparence shines 



FLORENCE. 

Like purple threads in marble mines. 
Thus pale and lost to sense she lies, 
The hot tears streaming from her eyes, 
Swollen and throbbing with the pain 
Of the bewildered, fevered brain ; 
And cold and damp her brow, as Death 

Had laid his icy finger there ; 
Hurried and hard her every breath, 

As when life's parting hour is near. 



XII. 

Many the high resolves she made, 

Many emotions dark allayed 

That rose to give her bosom aid : 

She would not shed another tear 

For him she once had held so dear ; — 

Henceforth her cheek should bloom as bright, 

Her step be in the dance as light 

As when one glance from Leon's eyes 

Was more to her than Paradise ; 

Her songs, her smiles should be as gay ; 

No sigh her weakness should betray — 

Thus she had pondered as she lay. 



31 



32 RECORDS OFTHE HEART. 

But ah ! we know not till they're stirred, 

What notes among the heart's strings slumber; 

A reckless touch of one fine chord 

Wakes tones that life's brief years outnumber, 

Whose doleful jarring never ceases 

Till Death the troubled soul releases. 



XIIL 

When sense and reason had returned, 
Passions again resumed their sway, 
And in her bosom feelings burned 

Which vengeance only can allay — 
Especially in woman's heart, 
When it is left to writhe and smart 
'Neath slighted love's envenomed dart. 
That night in Count Mononi's hall 
She would attend the festival, 
Her beauty deck in richest style, 
And teach her lip its sweetest smile ; 
To Leon make her cheek and eye 
The anguish of her heart belie. 
Resolving thus, she straightway rose 
And donned in haste her morning clothes ; 



FLORENCE. 

Summoned her page, and to him gave 
The orders which she wished to have 
Promptly and strictly now obeyed, 
And then dismissed him for her maid ; 
The dress and jewels fixed upon, 
The arduous toilet then begun. 



As she proceeds, her radiant form 
Surpasses all its wonted charm ; 
Her eyes so wildly, darkly roll, 
Revealing her deep-troubled soul, 
They volumes at one glance bespeak. 
Slightly she tinged her pallid cheek, 

Diffusing over it a bloom 
Resembling first rose-buds of spring, 
Or such as fitful fevers bring ; 

Then, whiter than the ostrich's plume 
A satin robe with ermine trimmed, 
She donned ; her ringlets, brightly gemmed. 
Left flowing darkly to her waist, 
And diamonds, that a queen had graced, 
Upon her snowy bosom placed. 



33 



34 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



XV. 

Early in Count Mononi's hall, 

She moved amid the festival, 

Outshining all the bright and bland — 

The loveliest of her lovely land. 

She stands beside a marble post, 

Upon her breast her small hands crossed, 

Her gems and diamonds gleaming bright, 

Beneath the golden lamps' full light ; 

Around her throng th 5 enchanted crowd, 

The young, the fair, the brave, the proud, 

Hanging upon her words divine 

That flow in mellow Florentine ; 

For there her youthful days she spent, 

While war her native country rent. 

XVI. 

"There comes Lord Leon with his bride!" 
Aloud a hundred voices cried ; 
" Behold how beautiful, how fair, 



FLORENCE. 35 

She with the white wreath in her hair." 
While thither Florence turned her face 
With all a high Sultana's grace, 
Lord Leon brushed her robe aside, 
And from her burning glance of pride 
Turned his as instantly away, 
As from the sun's meridian ray. 
But she, assuming mildest mien, 
Stepped forward with a smile serene, — 
A mask his subtlest powers defied, — 

Addressed him softly, gracefully, 
And prayed to know his lovely bride — 

" The beauteous Belle of Sicily." 
All wonted salutations past, 
A gracious look upon them cast, 
With words and smiles that could but charm ; 
Linked in the bride's her jewelled arm, 
Moved on amid the glittering throng, 
Where Beauty led the dance along ; 
Exerted all her arts to please, 
Till Leon felt himself at ease ; 
And ere the festival was ended, 
With them amidst the dance she blended ; 
Lastly with his joined her fair hand, 
Within the bounding Saraband ; 4 



36 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And while to minstrel's sprightly tune 
They tripped along the gay saloon, 
With quivering lip, yet air most bland, 
A note unseen placed in his hand. 



XVII. 

The music's hushed, the dance is done, 
The revellers to their homes have gone ; 
And sleep enchains each weary limb, 
Save hers whose eyes with tears are dim. 
Once more within her sumptuous room, 
Her spirit whelmed in darkest gloom ; 
Upon the couch in silence deep, 
With none her secret wo to weep, 
Or lend her kindly sympathy, — 
The sick heart's only remedy ; 
For tears, alas ! too fair — divine — 
Sits now the lonely Florentine ; 
Her head reclining on her hand, 
Before her placed an ivory stand ; 
Two golden cups upon it, filled 
With wine in her own land distilled ; 
A vase of freshest, purest flowers, 



FLORENCE. 61 



That day culled from Italian bowers, 
Is smiling brightly, sweetly there, 
In mockery of her lone despair. 



XVIII. 

A step is in the corridor, 

A hand rests on the yielding door, 

And to her mournful, gentle hest, 

Slowly within Lord Leon came ; 
The feelings he would have represt 

Like aspen shook his manly frame. 
" Be calm," the lady rising said, 
" There is no cause for agitation ; 
The note I gave thee only prayed 

A friendly reconciliation ; 
Such as our former intercourse 
Upon us both would seem to force. 
From childhood up we have been friends, 

And late methoucrht we might be more ; 
But lovers' bonds Fate often rends, 

And bids them hallowed dreams give o'er. 
The change thou suddenly hast made, 
The love I bore thee ill repaid ; 



38 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

But, in the presence of high Heaven, 
Leon, by me thou art forgiven. 
Upon the past let neither think ; — 

To seal for aye our friendliness, 
Pray, let us now together drink 

The glass of sweet forgetfulness." 
And Leon, by her kindness warmed, 
And by her beauty doubly charmed, 
While keen remorse his bosom rack'd, 
And half regretting his rash act, 
A moment clasped her hand in his, 
Printed on it one fervent kiss, 
And o'er departed, hallowed years 
Both mingled silently their tears, 
Then raised their cups the wine to sip, 
And as the goblet pressed his lip, 
She held her breath, gazed in his face, 
As there some secret thought to trace ; 
And when its contents he had quaffed, 
Loudly and franticly she laughed, 
And reckless drained the fatal draught. 

XIX. 

And pale and corpse-like there they stood, 
As held by some unhallowed spell, 



FLORENCE. 39 

Till to their hearts flowed back the blood, — 

Then shrieking on the floor they fell. 
A moment, cold as lifeless clay, 
In strong convulsive fits they lay, 
The spirit groping its dark way, 
Unlit by reason's faintest ray ; 
Then rose, and met their eyes of fire, 
With horrid scream, and visage dire, 
Like two fierce demons on their flight, 
That meet along the realms of night. 
With livid cheeks and lips all black, 
Each from the other then drew back ; 
Each bent on each a hideous gaze, 

Till from their frozen, ghastly eyes, 
The parting soul withdrew its rays, 

To wing its flight to other skies. 
And there, when morning's limpid light 
Broke through the damask curtains bright, 
They sat all cold, and stark, and still, 
In every vein death's icy chill — 
The frightful wrecks of mutual ill. 

XX. 

Old Ugo to the spot was led 

By many a menial's piercing cry, 



40 RECORDS OPTHE HEART. 

And darted on the ghastly dead 

The gladiator from his eye. 
Th' appalling sight, nor pity, love, 
His iron soul had power to move ; 
Long dormant feelings now up start 
Like stinging serpents in his heart, 
Shooting cold tremors through each vein, 
And fiery venom to the brain. 
He drew his sword half from its sheath, 
As if to wreak his ire on Death ; 
Then thrust it back, and with a sneer 
Bid vassals go prepare the bier. 

No weeds, no funeral pomp was there ; 

No tears, no knell, no holy prayer, 

Nor benison besought from heaven ; 

But in the silent hour of even, 

By menial hands they were conveyed 

Slowly along the myrtle shade 

To an unconsecrated grave ; 

Their constant dirge the moaning wave. 

XXI. 

And there they sleep ! how calm their rest ! 
The long unbroken dream of death ; 



FLORENCE. 41 



■ 



Each ruder voice around repressed, 

As timid nature held her breath 
In that lone vale. One rose appears 
There, watered by a Spirit's tears ; 
Fruit-buds just open ere they die, 
Nought reaches to maturity. 
This all observe ; the cause none tell. — 
They call it still, " The Spectre Dell," 
As by with guarded tread they go. 
" Perchance here happed some deed of woe." 
Two ghastly figures oft are seen, 
With pallid brow, and haggard mien ; 
At midnight hour strange sounds are heard : 
To enter here none e'er have dared. 

Nor cross nor crypt doth mark the spot, 
Or tell the mournful sleepers' lot ; 
The cypress in funereal gloom 
Folds its dark arms above the tomb. 
Since that dark eve, its sickly sod 
No human foot hath ever trod ; 
But when night draws her curtain there, 
Sits weeping by it mute Despair ; 
And Sorrow utters sadder wail 
Along that dim and silent vale. 



42 RECORDS OP THE HEART 



XXII. 

Never again that fair-haired bride 

Saw her young lord. What did betide 

Him on the night he left her side 

She never knew. — J Twas mystery all. 

A few days in Gudoni's hall 

She lingered, like the fading rose, 

As hue by hue its beauty goes, 

And every petal is decayed. 

Across the sea she was conveyed 

To her own isle ; but she was changed. 

She dwelt in a fantastic realm 
Of broken images, or ranged 

The abyss of madness, where no helm 
Or guiding star the soul assists, 
Amidst its frightful, spectral mists. 
Oft there, where she had reigned the queen 

Or deity of bower and hall, 
And moved in maiden's brightest sheen, 

Before the spell-bound gaze of all, 
She wandered slowly through the grove, 

Her pale brow with the willow bound, 



FLORENCE. 43 

Humming sad words of withered love, 

Or sending mournful wail around ; — 
Opened her arms in pleasing cheer, 
To clasp some phantom of the air, 
Whom she would deem her Leon, come 
To bear her with him to his home ; 
When from her grasp it would recede, 
Herself fling prostrate on the mead, 
In wild despair its presence plead : 
And thus she hourly raved the same, 
Till soon the spirit doffed the frame 
To moulder in the maniac's grave, 
Beside the clear Sicilian wave. 



XXIII. 

With lightning's speed conjectures flew, 
From hut to castle, sea, bayou ; — 
Where had the Lady Florence gone ? — 
Where Count Gudoni's only son ? 
Were questions oft repeated there, 
With tearful eyes and anxious care. 

A thorough search for them was made, 
Afar o'er mountain, ocean, glade, 



44 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

By weeping friends, — the faithful crew ; 
But none their sad tale fully knew, 
Save those who saw them on that morn 
To their unhallowed burial borne. 
Fate spread around their hapless tomb 
Her sable pall of deepest gloom. 



NOTES 



CANTO I. 



Note 1, Sect. IV. p. 7. 



"With thee to live, with thee to die." 

The Bride of Mydos. 



Note 2, Sect. VI. p. 11. 

" Across the brine where, wildly tost, 
On rocks ^Eneas' fleet was lost." 

Ac venti, velut agmine facto, 

Qua data porta, ruunt, et terras turbine perflant. 
Incubuere mari, totumque a sedibus *imis 
Una Eurusque Notusque ruunt, creberque procellis 
Africus, et vastos volvunt ad litora fluctus. 
Insequitur clamorque virum, stridorque rudentum. 
Eripiunt subito nubes ccelumque, diemque, 
Teucrorum ex oculis : ponto nox incubat atra. 
Intonuere poli, et crebris micat ignibus aether : 



46 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Praesentemque viris intentant omnia mortem. 
Extemplo iEneas solvuntur frigore membra. 
Ingemit, et duplices tendens ad sidera palmas, 
Talia voce refert : O terque quaterque beati, 
Q,ueis ante ora patrum, Trojae sub moenibus altis, 
Contigit oppetere ! * * 

" Talia jactanti stridens Aquilone procella 
Velum adversa ferit, fluctusque ad sidera tollit. 
Franguntur remi : turn prora avertit, et undis 
Dat latus : insequitur cumulo praeruptus aquae mons. 
Hi summo in fluctu pendent : his unda dehiscens 
Terram inter fluctus aperit : furit aestus arenis, 
Tres Notus abreptas in saxa latentia torquet : 
Saxa, vocant Itali, mediis quae in fluctibus aras, 
Dorsum immane mari summo. Tres Eurus ab alto, 
In brevia et syrtes urget, miserabile visu ; 
Illiditque vadis, atque aggere cingit arenae. 
Unam, quae Lycios fidumque vehebat Orontem, 
Ipsius ante oculos ingens a vertice pontus 
In puppim ferit : excutitur, pronusque magister 
Volvitur in caput : ast illam ter fluctus ibidem 
Torquet agens circum, et rapidus vorat aequore vortex. 
Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto : 
Arma virum, tabulaeque, et Troi'a gaza per undas. 
Jam validam Tlionei navem, jam fortis Achatae, 
Et qua vectus Abas, et qua grandaevus Alethes, 
Vicit hyems : laxis laterum compagibus omnes 
Accipiunt inimicum imbrem, rimisque fatiscunt." 

# JEneid, Lib. I. line 82. 



FLORENCE. 47 



CANTO II. 



Note 1, Sect. I. page 19. 
" Onward the golden stream is gliding." 

" The Tiber, stained to a deep yellow by the fertilizing soil which 
it has washed away from its banks, glitters like a belt of gold along 
the plain in the sunshine that irradiates with Italian clearness the 
sward, the scattered trees, and the shadowy hills." — Spalding's His- 
tory of Italy and the Italian Islands , Vol. I. p. 204. 

Note 2, Sect. I. p. 19. 

" Amid the myrtle and the palm." 

The palm is not a native of Italy, but as I find that it was there 
cultivated, and still continues to ornament many of the groves and 
gardens at Rome, I have taken the liberty to introduce it here. 

"We cross," says Spalding, " the mouth of a canal which dis- 
charges into the sea the united waters of Virgil's rivers Ufins and 
Amasenus. Remains of its harbor may be traced ; and considerable 
ruins, partly Pelasgic, partly Roman, and some belonging to the dark 
ages, surmount the noble rock which rises from the palm-trees of its 
hanging garden." 

Note 3, Sect. I. p. 19. 

"And ilices its margin hiding." 

The majesty of the Laurentine Forest is still represented by 
noble groves of the pine and the dark-leaved ilex, particularly about 



48 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

the mouth of the Tiber, skirting the sea like a line of gigantic col- 
umns, while the laurel, the myrtle, the arbutus, and wild olive form 
in many spots impervious thickets with ivy and heath." — Spalding's 
History of Italy and the Italian Islands, Vol. I. p. 24] . 



Note 4, Sect. XVI. p. 35. 

"Saraband." 
A Spanish dance in use in Italv. 



ZENEL 



ZENEL.^ 



Canto I. 



For thee, I'll lock up all the gates oflovc — 

****** 
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm. 

Much Ado about Nothing, Act IV. Scene I. 

For time at last sets all things oven — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

Masipfa. 

/ 



I. 

She was a peasant's daughter blithe and fair, 
Her cheeks fresh as the rose of Paradise, 
Locks like the raven's wing, dark languid eyes, 

And young and beautiful beyond compare — 

An airy flitting bird, aye soft and meek, 
Modest and gentle as the timid fawn, 
When first it ventures forth upon the lawn — 

Sought and beloved was young Zenel : but like 

* Pronounced Thanail. 



52 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

The radiant sunbeam prisoned in a cloud 
Ere it has traversed all its missioned way 
From the metropolis of light and day — 
A meteor seen, then lost in night's dim shroud- 
The rainbow's bright but evanescent glow 
Was the pure maiden's sad career below. 



II 



The summer moon is shining bright 
Far o'er the dark Sierra's height, 1 
And crag, and peak, and snowy crest, 
Where the wild eagle builds his nest ; 
The myrtle groves, and palms, 2 and flowers, 
Are smiling through their leafy bowers, 
And sloping hills and green-wood aisles 
Are gleaming in her quivering smiles ; 
And clear above, the soft blue sky 
Spreads its celestial drapery, 
Bespangled with ten thousand stars, 

While by their sheen 

Afar are seen 
Angels careering in their cars, 
Making the weary spirit long 
To doff its frail mortality, 



Z E N E L. 

And join the bright seraphic throng 
That sweeps along the starry sky ; 
The dew begems the verdant trees, 
The air with balmy odor breathes ; 
Along the spicy-scented vale 
Sings low and sweet the nightingale, 3 
Where lovers stroll beside the streams, 
Lost in their first Elysian dreams, 
Or there have stol'n an hour to rove 
And plight anew the vows of love, 
And secretly lament the wo 
That bids them happiness forego ; 
To tread earth's chequered paths apart, 
Weary, and lone, and sick at heart. 

Along Alhambra's dreary halls 
Full many a hollow footstep falls 
Of victim closely prisoned there 
To pine out life in lone despair ; 
While sounds of wild festivity, 
And royal mirth, and music's swell 
Descendeth through his loathsome cell 
In mockery of his misery ; 
And on the Vega's 4 moonlit green, 
While lingers yet the evening star 



53 



54 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Amidst the balmy air serene, 

Trip small feet to the light guitar 5 
And the low tinkling castanet, 
Which ever glads the Spanish fete ; 
And musically wends the rill 
Along the olive-shaded hill 
To mingle with the bright Xenil, 6 
And golden Darro's 7 gentle tide, 
That onward pensively doth glide — 
A scene so bright — divinely fair, 
That one might deem Crime lurked not there, 
And War had never shook that plain, 
Nor blood from noble Zegri's 8 vein 
Sprinkled the sod like heavy rain, 
Nor helm nor shield had strown it o'er, 
And many a brave and ghastly Moor. 
But by yon dark and pine-clad hill 
Hark ! to the Pirate's whistle shrill — 
See ! by that rock-embattled shore 
His gliding skiff and muffled oar ! 

III. 

Alas ! there is no land on earth 

Where Sin and Crime have not had birth, 



Z E N E L , 55 

Or people who no sorrow know, 
Or spot which hath no tale of wo : 

The Bard, from wrecks of empires flown, 
The records of the mighty gone, 
Weaves his immortal wreath of woes, 
And gives to death a calm repose ; 

The mermaid chants her song 
Of those who far beneath the waves 
Are sleeping in her watery caves 

Her coral groves among ; 
The Corsair prowls along the shore 
Where Greece lived once — but lives no more, 
Save some sad pile to tell us where 
Earth's mightiest, bravest spirits were ; 
But slavery binds her servile chain 
Where freedom held triumphant reign, 
Trampling the ashes of the brave. 
Proud Rome is now one general grave : 
Decay o'er Egypt spreads her pall — 
There Death and Crime hold festival ; 
Her splendors lie in mournful gloom, 
And reptiles couch on Glory's tomb. 
And like those fallen lands afar, 
Thine, Spain ! hath been an evil star : 
Long war, and blood, and rapine fierce 



56 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

m 

Have o'er thee flung their withering curse — 
Consumed, alas ! thy vital breath, 
And o'er thee spread the pall of death ; 
Made thee the puny despot's throne, 
The Pirate's spoil, the Brigand's home. 



IV. 



Where frowning rocks repel the sea 

Along Hispania's shore, 
And waves are dashing heavily 

Against their bases hoar, 
Sequestered safe from hostile eyes, 
The Pirate's sable vessel lies. 
A Greek from Z ante's sea-girt shore — 
Their leader first the rock climbed o'er, 
And stretched his eyes along the lea 
To scan if there were enemy, 
Or aught that they would fear to meet, 
Or might discover their retreat ; 
Then on his whistle softly blew 
To bid ascend his ready crew. 



ZENEL. 57 



V 



Upon his lofty brow yet age 9 
But lightly pressed its signet sage ; 
Still there were marks of inward care 
And grief, fall many a character — 
A melancholy of the eye 
And mien, when there was no one nigh, 
That told some treasured, hidden wo 
Was gnawing a t the heart below, 
That vanished as a step drew near, 
And gave its place to reckless cheer. 
His form was cast in stately mould, 
And high his brow, and full, and bold ; 
His long locks curly, glistening, 
And sable as the raven's wing, 
Were flowing 'neath the ebon hood 
That decks the Greek of noble blood. 
A cloak was o'er his shoulders fluna\ 
And by his side a sabre hung ; 
And round his well compacted waist, 
His pistols 'neath a belt were braced ; 
And but that he was deeply tanned, 
Some lineaments were on his cheek 
That might the darkened soul bespeak, 



58 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And from his eye gleamed fierce command, 
One well might deem he had been made 
For else than ocean's renegade, 
The blackest fiend that ever soared 
The watery waste, or stained a sword. 



VI. 

His motley crew around him stands, 

Prompt to obey his least commands ; 

Some he enjoined to fit the ship 

To make another speedy trip ; 

Fresh water from the mountain spring — 

Fruits, bread, whate'er they needed bring ; 

And some, the sturdy and the brave, 

He bid hie to the secret cave, 

To bring on board their hidden goods ; 

Then through the dark and shadowy woods, 

Along a narrow, winding road, 

In thoughtful mood he silent strode ; 

Nor heeded he the tangled way 

Which through umbrageous passes lay, 

Until he reached a wizard's cell, 

That stood within a rocky dell, 



Z E N E L . 59 

O'er which the myrtle branches made 
A pendant roof, and verdant shade. 

VII. 

The old monk sat clad in his hood, 
And garments torn, and soiled, and rude, 
His hoary beard and matted hair 
Strown o'er a visage worn with care, 
And brow by want and wo o'ercast, 
And roughened by the mountain blast ; 
For many a year his home had been 
Within that cell and narrow glen ; 
His drink the water of the rill 
That laughed along the craggy hill ; 
His bed the simple moss, or ground, 
His food the fruit that grew around, 
Or such as love-lorn maidens brought, 
Who from his counsels wisdom sought, 
Of magic spells on lovers wrought. 

None knew his lineage or his land, 
Nor when he first came to their strand ; 
The crime or wo that drove him from 
His country, kindred, native home, — 



60 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Tale of himself he never told, 

Nor aught to mortal would unfold 

Of his mysterious, lonely fate, 

Nor why he lived so desolate; 

But always friendly, courteous seemed 

To those who him magician deemed, 

And trusted fully in his art 

To heal the weary, sickened heart. 

There was no malady, but he 
Could find a speedy remedy ; — 
The crazed could to their sense restore, 
The blind could heal, the maimed could cure, 
The lover win back to his maid, — 
All plots of crime or virtue aid, — 
Tell what had been — what was to be — 
Unthread the webs of mystery. 



VIII. 

Slowly within the cell he went, 

Knelt down beside the wizard's knee, 
And gazed up in his face intent, 
While inward grief his bosom rent. 
" Father, thou knowest my misery," 



ZEN EL. 61 

He said, " the wrong, the cruel strife 
That drove me to this desperate life ; 
Upon revenge I then resolved, 

Nor years consumed in wo and crime 
My hate or vengeance have dissolved, 

Nor can the ceaseless lapse of time. 
Often before I have been here 

Since first to hope I bade farewell, 
And entered on my dark career ; 

But found thee not within thy cell, 
Nor caught a glimpse of the false fair, 
Or sire who drove me to despair ; 
And now we meet — say, in this vale 
Lives Selen and his fair Zenel?" 

" Yes, yes, brave Greek, yet here they live, 

I saw the lady y ester eve ; 

She hastened here with tearful eye, 

To learn her lover's destiny, 

Who long hath been upon the sea, 

Or, 'neath its waves she fears may be." 

" 'Tis well ! no more I need unfold — 
Thou knowest it all — pray, take this gold : — 
Let not thine art or power thee fail 



62 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

To win to me the young Zenel ; 
It is for this I sought your shore — 
It must be done, ere one day more 
Into eternity has sped," 
In sullen mood stern Aizen said. 

IX. 

The wizard flung aside his hood — 
A moment sat in thoughtful mood ; 
And having then the plan espied, 
In hollow tones he thus replied : — 
" It shall be done ; to-morrow eve, 
Soon as the sun doth take his leave, 
And the full moon resumes her reign, 
And softly lights the hill and plain ; 
With two or three of thy brave men 
Hie thee in haste unto this glen ; 
And I anon will lead thee where 
The lady nightly kneels in prayer." 

" Thank thee, old man ; be true to me, 
And boundless gold thy meed shall be ; 
To-morrow eve I will be here 
With men whose courage knows no fear," 



Z E N E L . 63 

He said, — rose — bowed, and journeyed back, 
O'er winding vale and mountain track, 
And rocky pass, and moor, and lea, 
Until he reached again the sea, — 
And there he stopped beside the ocean, 
Meet emblem of his breast's commotion ; 
Gazed o'er the wave with vacant view 
Until his locks dripped with the dew ; 
Walked up and down the breezy strand 
With clouded brow and clenched hand, — 
And more than once he dashed his hood 
Upon the ground in sullen mood, 
Ere down the rocky steep's descent 
He slowly to his hammock went, 
To list the billows' booming chime 
Around his couch — and dream of crime. 



64 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



Canto II. 



THE CAPTURE 



It is the pensive, gentle hour, 

When lovers breathe their holiest vows, 
The nightingale sings from the bower, 

And lightly dews begem the boughs, 
And dark'ning shadows fill the earth, 
And hushed day's giddy gush of mirth, 
And every sound afar and near 
Makes mournful music to the ear — 
The hour before the bright array 
Of stars succeed declining day. 



II. 



And Aizen hastes along the glen 
Close followed by three sturdy men, 
The wizard, who oft whispered low 
The safest path that they might go ; 
At length they reach a little lawn, 
Where panting lies the speckled fawn, 



Z E N E L . 65 

And just beyond a cot is seen 
Behind the tangled myrtle's screen, — 
Why stops he here ? What hath he spied 
In such a spot at eventide, 
To fix his eye, and kindle now 
A smile upon his iron brow ? — 
A youthful maid beneath a tree, 
In prayer upon her bended knee. 

Her brow, entwined in pearly bands, 
Is hid within her lily hands ; 
The white mantilla o'er her head 
In neat simplicity is spread, 
Her sable tresses hanging low 
Beneath it veil a robe of snow, 
That guards in ample folds and meet 
Her fairy form and tiny feet. 
Like frighted fawn she raised her head, 
As she had heard a hasty tread, 
And gazed around her breathlessly, 
With lips apart and wildered eye ; 
But when she saw no human form 

Along the lawn, or hill, or plain, 
Nor aught a gentle maid would harm, 

She bent her o'er her beads again. 



66 RECORDS OFT HE HEART. 

Never did artist's pencil trace 
A fairer or a lovelier face ; 
Never hath Moslem's fancy seen, 

While with misguided piety 
He dies amid the battle keen, 

A form of such divinity : — 
The full high brow — the large dark eye, 
And lashes drooping languidly, 
Like violet leaves o'er drops of dew, 
Veiling the light that sparkles through ; — 
The swan-like neck — the taper waist, 
In snow-white bodice neatly laced — 
The ivory arm, and lofty mien, 
Surpass the haughtiest eastern queen. 
Never a sweeter voice had rung 

Along her own green myrtle vale — 
Never a lighter foot had sprung 

Over its sward and flowerets pale, 
Or smaller hand touched the guitar ; 
She was her brother's guiding star — 
Her mother's hope — her father's pride — 
Brave Lynar's young affianced bride. 



Z E N E L . 67 



III. 



There Aizen like a statue stood, 
In the dark shadow of the wood, 
Gazing upon that lovely form, 
Whose beauty held for him no charm. 
How should he speak, and how draw near, 
And not awake the maiden's fear ? 
Nor by her shriek bring from the cot 
Some bold defender to the spot ? 
He clasped his brow with sudden throes — 
Bent lower down beneath the boughs — 
Still farther from the shadows passed — 
A look towards the cottage cast ; — 
Then to his men the signal made, 
Who promptly issued from the shade — 
With nimble step, and stealthy care, 
Approached the kneeling maiden near — 
Behind her sprang with noiseless tread, 
Snatched rudely back her beauteous head, 
Across her lips a bandage bound ; 
But as they raised her from the ground, 
One stifled shriek broke on the ears 
Of the unwary cottagers. 



t>S RECORDSOFTHEHEART. 

IV. 

And forth they leap — the father — son — 
Friends — vassals, 'long the valley run — 
They seek the spot where nightly she 
Was wont in prayer to bend the knee — 
They find her not — oh ! fell despair ! 
What fiend — what villain hath been there ?- 
They hear a shriek adown the vale — 
Fleet footsteps borne back on the gale — 
Then, as the raving tiger leaps, 
The panther o'er the mountain sweeps, 
The hound pursues the buffalo, 
The cottagers fierce chase the foe. 

The pirates with the maiden reach 
Their comrades waiting on the beach — 
The enemy close on their heels, 
With hearts of fire and ready steels — 
The armed crew — the skiff is there, 
And in it they have placed the fair — 
The sturdy rowers seize the oar 
To guide it quickly from the shore, 
Yet ere they go a moment wait 
Their chief, who comes at rapid gait ; 
But just as Aizen gains the water, 



Z E N E L . 69 

Places one foot within the boat, 
Old Selen cries, " My child ! my daughter," 

Seizes him firmly by the throat, 
Holds him fast with one sinewy hand, 

And with the other grasps the skiff, 
That with the lightning's speed from land 

Forth darts around the shadowy cliff; 
And to the ship that lies in wait 
To take on board its wretched freight. 
And now the contests fierce begin — 
Now rings the shore with furious din — 
Some headlong in the water leap, 
And with the boat strive pace to keep — 
Exhausted sink beneath the deep, 
And others rave, and curse, and weep. 
Aizen and Selen hand to hand 
Struggle upon the bloody sand — 
Now on the shore — now in the sea — 
Down Selen brought him to his knee — 
High in the air gleamed his bright blade — 
Full at his heart one thrust he made ; 
But Aizen parried off the blow, 
And nearly dispossessed his foe ; 
Rose firmly with him from the sand, 
Shook from his throat his iron hand, 



70 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Then on him like a tiger sprung, 
His weapon from him quickly wrung ; 
With the left hand grasped tight his throat, 

And held him out at full arm's length, 
Against a rock set back his foot, 

Raised high his blade with giant strength — 
" Dog — coward — demon — look on me ! 
Thy murderer — daughter's lover — see*! 
Whom from thy door thou once didst scourge, 
And unto crime and ruin urge ! 
Behold yon ship ! Thy daughter fair, 
To be what thou wouldst spurn, is there — 
Look ! 'tis thy last — thy doom I seal !" 
He said, and to the hilt his steel 
Plunged in the hoary Selen's heart, — 
The clustering foemen dashed apart, — 
Flung his broad limbs upon the wave, — 
Bid follow him his sailors brave, — 
' Who instantly their grasps untwine, 
And to the vessel stem the brine. 



V. 



And now the Pirate spreads her sail, 
And swiftly scuds before the gale, 



ZENEL. 71 



Bound onward for the Grecian isle, 
All cheer and glee on board the while, 
Save her whom hate and passion hold, 
And whose dark fate these lines unfold, 



VI 



Senseless upon a couch she lies, 

Within that vessel's gorgeous room, 
Around her falling draperies, 

The rich brocades of India's loom ; 
Pearls, gems, from many a foreign land, 
And treasures brought from Persia's strand ; 
Jewels, that queens perchance had graced, 
In wild profusion round her placed. 
Wines, cordials quickly now are brought, 
And every remedy is sought 
Which can the wildered mind restore ; 
Fresh fruits a crouching woman bore, 
And spread before the maiden there ; 
Bathed her soft brow, and smoothed her hair- 
Lingering would oft the task renew, 
But at the Pirate's frown withdrew. 



72 



RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



VII. 

Sense has returned — she opes her eyes 
Upon the orient draperies, 
Up from the cushions quickly springs, 
And casts around a wildered glance, 
Like one just waking from a trance ; 
Her small white hands in frenzy wrings — 
" Ave Maria! where am I?" 
She shrieks in tones of agony; — 
" Aizen ! oh Heaven ! where can I be ? — 
What ! do I dream ? — a phantom see ?— 
'Tis thou ! — the Greek ! oh God ! my fear ! 
Is this the sea — are these the waves I hear 1 
My father's heart will break with wo — 
I will not — must not further go ; — 
Thou wilt not — canst not treat me so ! 
Let — let thy ship retrace its track, 
And bear me to my parents back !" 

" Ha ! bear thee back ! false, haughty fair ! 
The author of my long despair — 
My crime — my wo — my ruin ! — Never ! 
Thou'rt mine, and mine shall be forever. 



Z E N E L . 73 

I sought thy hand, and would have given 

My all below — my hope of heaven 

For thee, a loved, an honored bride ; 

But thou didst spurn me from thy side — 

Thy cruel father from his door ; 

And vengeance 'gainst you both I swore. 
And since that time I've had but one sole aim — 
One thought — one wish — one all-absorbing flame — 
To punish him, and link thy life to shame." 

"O Aizen, spare a fate so dread! 
In mercy spare ! and thee I'll wed," 
Clasping his knees she sobbing said ; 
" My home — my heart — my life shall be 
Devoted, consecrate to thee. 
My father's gold — his lands are thine ; 
All, all to thee he shall resign !" 

" Wed me, Zenel ! 'tis all too late ! 
My ardent love is turned to hate, 
Nor long forbearance need'st expect 
From him thy cruel scorn hath wrecked." 

" Fear'st not? — my father and my brother" — 

" Poor helpless dove ! thy threats retain ; 

They will not strive with me again, 
4 



71 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Nor draw their blades against another; — 
Thy brother sleeps beneath the wave ; 
Old Selen found a bloody grave ; 
This sabre pierced to-night his breast, 
And sent him to his long and dreamless rest." 

Then, quick as lightning from the cloud 
Dispels the mists that earth enshroud, 
Truth flashed across her mental eye, 
And showed a fiend of deepest dye : 

" O God of Heaven ! avert my doom !" 
She cried, and breathless, shuddering, 
Her senses faint and wandering, 

Pale as the drapery of the tomb, 
Cold as a marble pillar, sate 
Beneath his lowering frown of hate ; 
Her lips compressed, and small hand raised, ] 
With vacant stare full on him gazed, 
Till through his veins shot quick an icy chill, 
And his crime-calloused heart with awe grew still. 

" 'Tis most ungenerous — most unkind, 
Yet to thy will I am resigned ; 
But first, one hour to me allow, 
That for the dead my tears may flow ; 



ZENEL. 75 



Then thy dark mandate I abide ;" — 
Subduedly at last she sighed. 

" 'Tis well for thee thus to submit — 
One single hour I thee permit/' 
He said ; then, darkly frowning, warned 
Her of her fate, and from her turned 
And sought the deck, to breathe the air 
And give all needful orders there. 



VIII. 

Down by the silken couch she knelt, 
In its soft cushions laid her brow ; 
If ever human being felt 

The pangs of hell, she felt them now. 
Before her rose her childhood's home, 
Its innocence, its birds, its bloom ; 
The friends that there were left behind 
To mourn her whom they ne'er would find ; 
Her father bleeding on the lea, 
Her lifeless brother 'neath the sea, 
And him whom most on earth she loved — 
Oh ! then her heart's deep fountains moved, 



76 B E C R D 9 K T H B 11 E A R T . 

And from her brow she tore the bands. 
And sobbed aloud and wrung her hands : 
Raised her lull streaming eyes to heaven, 
Implored that power might thence be given 

To aid her in her agony : 
Rose, glanced around her hastily, 
Snatched up the light — passed o'er the door, 
Where drapery concealed a door 

Whose light bolt yielded easily. 
One moment only tarried she, 
And then with step resolved and free, 
Back to the couch returned to wait 
Calmly whate'er might be her t'ate. 



IX. 

What means that bustle on the deck ? 

Those hurrying footsteps to and fro ! — 
A storm, that threatens sudden wreck ! 

A rock, that gores the ship below I 
Some deadly foe approaching nigh ! — 
Hark! list! that wild and maddening cry! 
Again! again! 'tis louder — nigher! 
"Stop! ho! tire! fire! the ship's on fire ! 



ZEN EL . 

Bring water ! ho ! bring water quick ! 
Clew up the sails!" — rings 'long the deck. 
The minute guns boom o'er the wave ; 
None — none in mercy come to save ; 
But, as we in the forest see 
The red blaze shooting up the tree — 
From limb to limb it leaping goes, 
Until one livid mass it glows ; — 
The flames are coiling up the mast, 
And raging in the strengthening blast. 

Now shrill and loud arise on high 
The strong man's shriek of agony ; 
Some reckless by the hatches go, 
And some as weak as children grow, 
And feel how just th' avenging rod, 
Then bend the knee and call on God ; 

Some headlong plunging in the sea, 

Anticipate their destiny ; 
Or, yet to shun a watery grave, 
Wrestle with death upon the wave, 

In fearful grasp and agony. 
Others of that ill-fated band 
Cling to some slender plank or brand, 
Till Death unclasps each scorched hand ! 
And some in their despair are raving, 



77 



78 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Stern Aizen still his pangs is braving, 
When through the glaring smoke and flame, 
With frantic bound a light form came, 
With livid cheek and ghastly eye, 
And brow elate, and hands on high, 
Shrieking — " 'Twas I — dark Aizen — I 
That fired thy ship — 'twas I — 'twas I ! 
Thy deed is black — thy guerdon sure, 
And death is mine — but I am pure !" — 
Then overboard leaped in the deep, 

Leaving not one to tell the tale 
Of those she doomed that night to sleep 
Beneath the sea's unceasing wail — 
The victims of the fair Zenel. 



NOTES 



Note 1, Sect. II. p. 52. 

" The summer moon is shining bright 
Far o'er the dark Sierra's height." 

" Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate, and 
in such a place ! The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in 
summer is perfectly ethereal. 

" At such a time I have ascended to the little pavilion called the 
Queen's Toilette, to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect. To 
the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada would gleam like 
silver clouds against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of 
the mountain would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, 
however, would be to lean over the parapet of the tocador, and gaze 
down upon Granada, spread out like a map below me j all buried in 
deep repose, and its white palaces and convents sleeping, as it were, 
in the moonshine." — Washington Irving' s Mhambra. 



Note 2, Sect. II. p. 52. 

"The myrtle groves and palms, and flowers." 

" The most singular feature in the gardens of Cordova is the lofty 
palm, which is seen towering far above trees, walls, and house-top3. 



80 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

" The palm is, indeed, among the first objects which the traveller 
discovers as he approaches Cordova, and for a moment he fancies 
that he is about to enter some African or Asiatic city. It is said, 
that all the palm-trees in Spain — and they are very numerous in 
Andalusia, Murcia, and Valencia — proceeded from the one planted 
by the first Abderahman in his favorite garden upon the bank of 
the Guadalquivir." — A Year in Spain, by a Young American, Vol. 
III. p. 26. 

Note 3, Sect. II. p. 53. 

" Along the spicy-scented vale 
Sings low and sweet the nightingale." 

" The foliage of the trees was still tender and transparent j the 
pomegranate had not yet shed its brilliant crimson blossoms ; the 
orchards of the Xenil and the Darro were in full bloom ; the rocks 
were hung with wild flowers, and Granada seemed completely 
surrounded by a wilderness of roses, among which innumerable 
nightingales sang, not merely in the night, but all day long." — 
Washington Irving' s Alhambra. 

" About a mile from the sea, we came to a small river, skirted by 
silver poplars. These were merry with the music of the nightingale. 
This bird is always found in Andalusia upon the tops of mountains, 
and along the banks of rivers." — A Year in Spain, by a Young 
American, Vol. III. p. 26. 

Note 4, Sect. II. p. 53. 

" And on the Vega's moonlit green." 

The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of many 
actions between the Moors and Christians. 



Z E NE L. 81 

Note 5, Sect. II. p. 54. 

" Trip small feet to the light guitar 
And the low tinkling castanet." 

"Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of castanets from some 
party of dancers lingering in the Alameda;* at other times I have 
heard the dubious tones of a guitar and the notes of a single voice 
rising from some solitary street, and pictured to myself some youth- 
ful cavalier serenading his lady's window. 

"As the sun declines, begins the bustle of enjoyment, when the 
citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and revel away the 
brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and the Xenil. 

" Now break forth, from court and garden, and street and lane, 
the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and the clinking of castanets; 
blending, at this lofty height, in a faint but general concert." — 
Washington Irving' s Mhambra. 



Note 6, Sect. II. p. 54. 
"The bright Xenil." 
The Xenil, the principal stream that waters the Vega. 



Note 7, Sect. II. p. 54. 

"The golden Darro's gentle tide." 

" The Darro is a small stream running through Granada, and is 
the De Auro or Darra of the Romans, who procured gold from it by 
washing its sands. Particles of gold are still found in it ; and when 

* A public walk on the Vega. 

4* 



82 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Philip the Second came to Granada, the city presented him with a 
crown made from the gold of the Darro. — Bourgoanne's Travels in 
Spain. 



Note 8, Sect. II. p. 54. 
" Nor blood from noble Zegri's vein." 
The Zegris, one of the tribes of the Moors of Granada. 

Note 9, Sect. V. p. 57. 

" Upon his lofty brow yet age 
But lightly pressed its signet sage." 

" On his bold visage middle age 
Had slightly pressed its signet sage." 

Scott. 



MELPOMENE. 



MELPOMENE 



In my meditations on the genius and poetry of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, I 
have always associated her with Melpomene, one of the nine Muses, the presiding 
goddess of sorrow ; and hence I have placed the following stanzas to the memory of 
L. E. L. under that title. 



He has outsoared the shadow of the night, 
Envy, and calumny, and hate, and pain, 
And that unrest which men miscall delight 
Can touch him not, and torture not again. 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold 

Adonais. 



I. 

Thou wert not made for happiness on earth, 
Thy spirit nature had too finely strung 
With feelings that were of ethereal birth, 
To brook the woes that fate around thee flung ; 
Falsehood and scorn too bitterly had stung 
Thy tender heart in its first vernal bloom ; 
The mists of sorrow like a mildew clung 
Around its bud, overshadowing it in gloom, 
And sad its moans as sighs that whisper from the tomb. 



86 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



II 



High-gifted woman ! gloomy, mournful thing! 
Brief was thy voyage on life's stormy sea, 
And rough, and dark, and fraught with suffering ; 
Station and wealth were not awarded thee, 
To save thee from the withering calumny 
And cavil of those gossips who care nought 
How pure the heart, or great the merit be 
Of helpless victims whose fair names they blot : 
Of Genius, thine was but, alas, the common lot 



III. 



Thy youth, thy innocence, dependent state, 1 
Thy high aspiring mind, unbounded praise, 
Did point thee out a fitting mark for Hate 
And Envy's poisoned arrows : He who lays 
His course in life's high walks, and tries to raise 
Himself in being's scale, must bear the sting 
And scoff of those who plod in narrow ways — 
They are the brood doomed near the earth to cling, 
And in despite would clip the soaring eagle's wing. 



MELPOMENE. 87 



IV. 



Sorrow appeareth in full many a shape, 2 
And none are skilled to tell the whence or why 
Such tears are shed — such moans the heart escape ; 
They may arise alone from sympathy — 
Some secret, sudden blow of cruelty, 
Or wrong, or guilt it may be doth compel 
Her wailing victim from his home to fly, 
And strive amid the camp, or ocean's swell, 
Or in the sparkling bowl his miseries to quell. 



V. 



Some seek from grief in tears a partial rest, 
In songs, in sighs to give the heart repose ; 
While others hide the viper in their breast, 
In silence bear the bosom's rankling throes. 
The lofty soul once stung will shun its foes, 
Recoil within its cell — on its own breath 
There feed, and brood above its hoarded woes, 
Till, like the fire-girt scorpion in its scath, 
Writhing it fiercely turns and stings itself to death, 



88 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



VI 



Thou wert one of that pining race who seem 
Doomed lo drink immeasurable wo ; 
Whose lot is here to toil, and sing, and dream, 
Scourged by the lash of wrong, and many a foe, 
That should, alas ! their better being know ; 
Whose food is wormwood, and whose tears are gall, 
Along whose paths doth deadly nightshade grow ; 
Who find no peace till death in mercy call, 
And the grave frees the spirit from its bitter thrall. 



VII. 

Poor unprotected wanderers they come 
Upon the earth, and raise their plaintive cries, 
Their wail, their yearnings for a purer home, 
E'en as a bird caged from its native skies ; 
Men view their haggard brows, their agonies, 
And deem them mad, or wrecks of infamy, 
And lend their breath to swell vile calumnies, 
To stab the writhing soul whose fame shall be 
A glory and a song throughout eternity. 



MELPOMENE. 89 



VIII 



9 

Ah ! hard the fate that life on such bestows, 

Their wrongs an angel's tongue would fail to tell ; 
Some have gone mad, and fled their earthly foes, 
And sought a home afar in desert dell ; 
Some breathed out life within a prison's cell, 
Some, too, have cut it short in its full prime — 
Death the sole stroke their agonies could quell ; 
And some through tears have lit with thought sublime 
Their own funereal pyre to gild the night of time. 



IX 



Brave Ghibelline ! 3 thou of the sword and lyre ! 
Whose noble deeds proud Florence did repay 
With wrong, and scorn, and unrelenting ire ; 
Compelled thee her stern mandates to obey, 
But could not chain thy spirit to its clay, 
Or quell its fire, which dissipates the gloom 
Of slander, hate, and envy, and decay, 
The long oblivion of the cold, dark tomb, 
And twines thy brow with wreaths of an immortal bloom. 



90 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



X 



p Thou next unrivalled son of Italy ! 4 

The world's third epic bard — the scholar — sage, — 

The Iris of thy own land's poesy, 

The cloud-encircled day-star of thine age, 

Whose splendors rolling centuries engage ; — 

The true refiner of thy country's tongue, 

Though buffeted, and goaded into rage 

By the stern tyrant whose harsh treatment wrung 

Unto the core thy heart — thy soul to madness stung ; 



XI 



Who midst oppression dire, and agony, 
And tears, didst pour thy soul o'er Zion's fate, 
And wove a wreath of immortality 
While pent behind a dungeon's gloomy grate. 5 
Albion's sad son ! 6 who fled'st her shores in hate, 
And Sappho, Petrarch, Alfieri, Young ! 
Can ye not tell the sufferings that await 
The children of the lyre ; the scorn — the wrong — 
The wo — that move the spirit's fretted strings too strong? — 



MELPOMENE. 



91 



XII 



Look back along the misty vale of time, 
And scan the woes, the chequered history 
Of those whose earthly lot has been to rhyme ; 
In cells, in garrets, and in dungeons, see 
Them cooped by Want, or cruel Tyranny ; 
Or writhing, withering 'neath aspersions base, 
The pining toys of pampered royalty, 
Breathe forth their souls in songs of simple grace, 
To feed the sluggish minds of many a haughty race. 



XIII. 



Survey the tribe that up Parnassus soar, 
From Judah's royal Bard of Psalmody, 
To Homer, Virgil, and the Troubadour, 
And downward thence, the mournful destiny 
Of all the mighty sons of minstrelsy ; 
Among them see the poor, the maimed, the blind, 
Who sing for daily bread, yet are to be 
Within the heart of future worlds enshrined, 
And stand on fame's proud height the wonder of mankind. 



92 RECORDS OFTHE HEART. 

XIV. 

Shelley and White and all the tuneful race — 
Behold their death-bed, their untimely doom ! 
In India three have found a resting-place/ 
From Missolonghi one went to his tomb 
How sad ! Two hapless sons repose in Rome, 8 
Torquato fell by Este's cruel hand, 
Dark Sappho sleeps beneath th' Ionian foam, 
The immortal Dante in the exile's land, 
And thou, fair Albion's child, midst Afric's burning sand. 



XV. 

Upon thy brow Genius had shed his starry beams, 
And lit within thy breast his quenchless fire ; 
Thy young heart filled with Fancy's brightest dreams, 
Whatever Hope, and Faith, and Truth inspire. 
But Fate, before whose breath must all expire, 
To ruin hurled thy high expectancy, 
The laurel tore from thy impassioned lyre, 
Extinguished love, thy soul's divinity, 
And wrung thy bleeding heart till it was bliss to die. 



MELPOMENE. 



XVI 



93 



Thousands have listened to thy plaintive lute, 
And owned the power of thy song's witchery ; 
Thousands have worshipped reverently and mute, 
While came in its sad tones their heart's own history ; 
Thousands have shed their silent tears for thee, 
And mourned that death so soon thy lyre unstrung, 
O sovereign mistress of Love's minstrelsy ! 
And though thy harp is on the willow hung, 
Lasting as time, thy songs, like Sappho's, shall be sung. 



XVII. 

For since the burning Lesbian swept her lyre, 
Gave love a language — built the Sapphic rhyme, 9 
And listening nations owned its magic fire, 
Young Phaon's heart e'en softened for a time, 
Alone by its imperishable chime, 
Though sad and fatal proved its witchery ; 
Wove the soft themes young maiden's joy to hymn, 
And stamped on Lesbos immortality : 
Love has no votary pure — no fervent priest like thee. 



94 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



XVIII. 

In youth thy fancy feigned for thee a home 10 
In sunny climes beyond the dark blue sea, 
A spot where thou in future years mightst roam 
Through bright and flowery fields of poesy ; 
Where sorrow, envious tongues, or misery 
Would reach thee not, to break the hallowed spell : 
Such is, alas ! the pining fantasy 

Of minds too much oppressed, and thoughts that dwell 
Too closely pent within the spirit's sickly cell. 



XIX. 

Thus Grief may pale the cheek, the bright eye dim, 
Wo shroud in night the young heart's dearest dream ; 
Life's fount with gall may bubble to the brim, 
Yet Hope upon its dark and troubled stream 
Will ever fling some fond and flickering beam, — 
Catch from the Iris an ethereal ray, 
And light the future with a cheering gleam, 
Point to some goal where grief will end for aye, 
And lure us to the grave with fleeting visions gay. 



MELPOMENE. 95 



XX 



And thither thou didst go, to that far land 
For whose bland airs thy youthful heart did sigh ; 
Around thee there the sapphire seas expand 
In wild majestic sweep ; light birds flit by, 
Filling the breezes with their melody ; 
The clear cerulean heavens above thee bend, 
So bright that one might deem nought there could die ; 
Soft streams in low sweet diapasons wend, 
And thou alone wert dark where all these beauties blend. 



XXI. 

Strange contrast ! mockery of thy visions high ! 
How sadly were thy cherished dreams reversed ! 
Those gorgeous scenes attracted not thine eye, 
Nor kindled up thy spirit's fire as erst 
Thou deem'dst, nor from thy lute in numbers burst, 
To charm the world ! n Oh ! couldst thou not control 
Thy scorn — " the green-eyed monster 5 ' most accurst? 1 
And fix thy steadfast eye upon the goal, 
The promised, glorious home of the immortal soul ? 



96 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

XXII. 

It was not so ! Where roams the dusky Moor, 
Where mountains upward through the soft clouds spring, 
Where ocean breaks in loud unheeded roar, 
Thou sat' st, like wounded bird with drooping wing, 
To whom such scenes no healing balm could bring ; 
The poisoned arrow left its rankling smart 
Within thy unsuspecting breast — a sting 
To which nor tears, nor sighs could aid impart — 
A wound without an antidote in woman's heart. 



XXIII. 

Oh ! couldst thou bear no more of pain and strife ? 
A little longer life's rough tempest brave? 
Thou who hadst known to bear — whose years were rife 
With suffering — could not fame immortal save 
Thee from so dark a fate — so lone a grave ? 
Did that one pang exceed all other wo 
So far ? To turn aside the blow, did ye not have 
The power, O Spirits of the lute? Ah, no ! 
It crushed love's sweetest lyre, and laid its mistress low. 



MELPOM EN E. 97 



XXIV. 



What was it ? what — that stole away her breath 
In the lone midnight hour ? Some shadowy foe, 
Or demon of the clime? 13 What — what — O Death? 
Not Thou, unsought. 14 — Her malady we know; 
It is a common one — a common blow, 
But fell, alas ! on an uncommon heart, 
In which its fatal work is ne'er so slow 
As in one that is fortified by art : 
Hers wore no shield, love bared it well to such a dart. 



XXV. 

And wilt thou wake no more? Oh! ne'er again 
Wilt thou return to touch the lute's soft strings ? 
Forever hushed is that enchanting strain, 
Breathing of love unutterable things ; 
Thy spirit soars upon its radiant wings, 
The tie that bound thee to our earth is riven, 
And thou hast gone where time no sorrow brings, 
To dwell with Angels and the holy Seven, 
And in thy Master's praise to sweep the harps of Heaven, 



98 



RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



XXVI 



Thy place is vacant by thine own loved hearth, 
And where are met the gay and festal throng 
Thy sweet voice rises not with the loud mirth, 
Speeding the soft and bright-winged hours along 
Nor floats thy form the sprightly dance among, 
As it was wont in happy days gone by, 
Ere thy young heart had felt the chill of wrong ; 
For thy sad doom tears flow from many an eye, 
And the world breathes for thee one universal sigh. 



XXVII. 

On Afric's shore there is a lonely tomb, 15 
Where sable maidens silent sit and weep, 
And o'er it sprinkle flowers of rare perfume, 
Where cypresses their shadowy vigil keep, 
And mermaids chant their requiem from the deep. 
A shattered lyre hangs by, unceasingly 
A viewless hand its slackened strings doth sweep, 
And Zephyr holds her breath, and bird, and bee, 
To catch the lingering spirit's mournful minstrelsy. 



MELPOMENE. 99 



XXVIII. 



Yes, there beneath the castle wall she lies, 16 
Calmly reposing in her sea-girt home, 
And gleaming white her monument doth rise, 
Greeting the traveller's eye. 17 Oh! ye who roam 
Where nations share one general catacomb, 
And love o'er consecrated ground to rove, 
Go there, and kneel beside that lonely tomb, 
And let your spirits drink the streams of love 
And mingled sanctity pervading worlds above. 



NOTES 



Note 1, Stanza III. p. 86. 

m Xhy youth, thy innocence, dependent state, 
Thy high-aspiring mind, unbounded praise, 
Did point thee out a fitting mark for hate, 
And envy's poisoned arrows — " 

" Unfortunately, the very unguardedness of her innocence served 
to arm even the feeblest malice with powerful stings : the openness 
of her nature ? and the frankness of her manners, furnished the silly 
or the ill-natured with abundant materials for gossip. She was 
always as careless as a child of set forms and rules for conduct ; it 
was enough for her that she meant no harm, and that the friends 
she most valued knew this. She thus writes to her friend, Mrs. 
Thomson : — 

" ' My dear Mrs. Thomson : 

a e 1 have not written as soon as I intended, first, because I wished 
to be able to tell you I had taken some steps towards change ; and 
also wished, if possible, to subdue the bitterness and indignation of 
feelings not to be expressed to one so kind as yourself. I must own 



102 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

I have succeeded better in the first than the last. I think of the 
treatment I have received until my very soul writhes under the 
powerlessness of its anger. It is only because I am poor, unpro- 
tected, and dependent, that I am a mark for all gratuitous insolence 
and malice, of idleness and ill-nature. And I cannot but feel deeply, 
that had J been possessed of rank and opulence, either these remarks 
had never been made, or if they had, how trivial would their conse- 
quence have been to me. 

"'I must begin with the only subject — the only thing in the 
world I really feel an interest in — my writings. It is not vanity 
when I say, their success is their fault. When my " Improvisatrice" 
came out, nobody discovered what is now alleged against it. I did 
not take up a review, a magazine, a newspaper, but if it named my 
book it was to praise "the delicacy, the grace, the purity of feminine 
feeling it displayed." * * * 

" 'But success is an offence not to be forgiven. To every petty 
author, whose works have scarce made his name valuable as an 
autograph, or whose unsold editions load his booksellers' shelves, I 
am a subject of envy — and what is envy but a name for hatred ? 
You must forgive this : I do not often speak of my own works, and 
I may say this is the first time it was ever done boastingly ; but I 
must be allowed to place the opinions of the many in opposition to 
the envious and illiberal cavillings of a few. As to the report you 
name, I know not which is greatest, the absurdity or the malice. 
Circumstances have made me very much indebted to the gentleman 
[whose name was coupled with hers] for much kindness. I have 
not had a friend in the world but himself to manage any thing of 
business, whether literary or pecuniary. Your own literary pursuits 
must have taught you how little a young woman can do without 
assistance. Place yourself in my situation. Could you have 
hunted London for a publisher, endured all the alternate hot and 
cold water thrown on your exertions ; bargained for what sum they 



MELPOMENE, 103 

might be pleased to give; and after all, canvassed, examined, nay 
quarrelled over accounts the most intricate in the world ? 

" c The more I think of my past life, and of my future prospects, 
the more dreary do they seem. I have known little else than priva- 
tion, disappointment, unkindness, and harassment : from the time I 
was fifteen, my life has been one continued struggle in some shape 
or another against absolute poverty, and I must say not a tithe of 
my profits have I ever expended on myself: and here I cannot but 
allude to the remarks on my dress. It is easy for those whose only 
trouble on that head is change, to find fault with one who never in 
her life knew what it was to have two new dresses at a time. No 
one knows but myself what I have had to contend with — but this is 
what I have no right to trouble you with.' " — Blanchard's Life and 
Literary Remains of L. E. L. 



Note 2, Stanza IV. p. 87. 

" Sorrow appeareth in full many a shape, 
And none are skilled to tell the whence or why 
Such tears are shed — such moans the heart escape." 

It has been the fate of most authors of fiction, to be identified 
with their heroes and heroines, or, in other words, to be charged with 
pouring forth the feelings of their own hearts through such proxies. 
This was peculiarly the case with poor L. E. L. " She sang of the 
sorrows of the beguiled, the disappointed and broken-hearted maid- 
en ; love foredoomed, love linked to wo, and fated to death ; the 
hopelessness of hope, the reality of pain, the mockery of life ; and 
consequently was considered by the prejudging mass to be the poor, 
disappointed, broken-hearted, forlorn damsel which she painted," 
and was subjected to the illiberal cavil of self-constituted critics and 
envious competitors. No liberal and candid mind can doubt, for a 



104 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

moment, that the tender melancholy, and pensive breathings of 
L. £. L.'s writings arose entirely from sympathy, and a large capa- 
city to enter into the miseries of others. 



Note 3, Stanza IX. p. 89. 
"Brave Ghibelline !" 



Dante. 



"It is said, that during his exile he wrote, or completed, in one 
hundred cantos, his immortal poem, the ' Divina Commedia.' " — 
Lives of the Eminent Men of Italy" 



Note 4, Stanza X. p. 90. 

"Thou next unrivalled son of Italy. 
Tasso. 



Note 5, Stanza XI. p. 90. 

"And wove a wreath of immortality 
While pent behind a dungeon's gloomy grate !" 

Tasso wrote his great poem, or a part of it, < Girusalemme Libe- 
rata,' in the dungeons of Ferrara, while confined there as a lunatic 
by his oppressor Alfonso. 



Note 6, Stanza XI. p. 90. 

"Albion's sad son ! who fledst her shores in hate.' 
Byron. 



MELPOMENE. 105 

Note 7, Stanza XIV. p. 92. 
Vk In India throe have found a resting-place." 
Bishop Heber, Falconer,* and Miss Jewsbury. 

Note 8, Stanza XIV. p. 92. 
" Two hapless sons repose in Rome." 
Shelley and Keats. 

Note 9, Stanxa XVII. p. 93. 

" For since the burning Lesbian swept her lyre, 
Gave love a language — built the Sapphic rhyme." 

The Sapphic verse, so named from the poetess Sappho, who was 
the originator of it, consists of five feet; the first a trochee, the 
second a spondee, the third a dactyl, and the fourth and fifth 
trochees. Sappho accompanied every three of these verses with 
an Adonic (a measure used in lamenting the fate of Adonis), which 
consists of a dactyl and a spondee ; and in this she has been imitated 
by Horace, Catullus, and others. 

Note 10, Stanza XVIII. p. 94. 

M In youth thy fancy feigned for thee a home, 
In sunny climes beyond the dark-blue sea." 

A desire to go to Africa was predominant in the mind of L. E. L. 
from her earliest years. " Mr. Maclean," says Blanchard, "had 

* Falconer was lost with the Aurora frigate, on, or not far from, the coast of India, 

5* 



L06 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

early made a voyage to Africa, the spot of L. £. L.'s childish specu- 
lations. Africa, therefore, was a congenial subject of conversation 
between them ; — African habits, African horrors, and African won- 
ders ; the sea, the coast, the desert, the climate, and the people, 
even as a child such themes had attractions for her, and when they 
were descanted on she was a child still." 



Note 11, Stanza XXI. p. 95. 

" Nor from thy lute in numbers burst 
To charm the world." 

L. E. L. had contemplated writing several literary works during 
her stay in Africa, which was to have been three years. She dwelt 
frequently on the great solace which the execution of her literary 
plans would be to her. She said, " How deeply shall I value praise 
when I am away !" Her literary pursuits were to be her consolation 
in solitude ; but, alas ! her solitude was a deeper one than that of 
the green groves of Africa — it was the cold and lonely tomb. 



Note 12, Stanza XXI. p. 95. 



Oh ! couldst thou not control 



Thy scorn — l the green-eyed monster' most accurst ?" 

" From a connection existing between Mr. Maclean and a native 
woman at Cape Coast, it is apparent from all the evidence, that 
there were things which a pure and noble-minded woman like 
L. E. JL. is little disposed and ill prepared to bear." — Blanchard. 



MELPOMENE. 107 



Note 13, Stanza XXIV. p. 97. 



Some shadowy foe ? 



Or demon of the clime ?" 

" The existence at Cape Coast of one, who, with her child, had 
formerly been its inhabitant, suggested to the minds of those who 
knew the hot blood and the fierce habits of the natives of Western 
Africa, that the English intruder at the Governor's residence had been 
sacrificed to a horrible spirit of female vengeance." — Blanchard. 



Note 14, Stanza XXIV. p. 97. 

" Not Thou, unsought.—" 

"The dreadful idea," says Blanchard, "became prevalent, that 
the deadly acid had been taken by the deceased, but not acciden- 
tally ; that, racked by many nameless griefs, beset with distracting 
fears of peril and accumulating trouble, the object of our affection, 
and admiration, and sympathy, overwrought, over-excited by the 
very effort to suppress her sorrows and to write gay accounts of her 
health and spirits to her friends in England, had swallowed the fatal 
draught by design. It was said so publicly, and thence believed 
generally." 

Note 15, Stanza XXVII. p. 98. 

" On Afric's shore there is a lonely tomb." 
At Cape Coast, in Western Africa. 



108 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Note 16, Stanza XXVIII. p. 99. 

14 Yes, there beneath the castle wall she lies." 

44 She sleeps in the barren sands of Africa, and the mournful music 
of the billows to which she listened in her solitary sea-girt dwelling, 
is now the dirge that resounds over her distant grave. She had 
herself predicted her own fate, though speaking in the character of 
another : 

cc 'Where my fathers' bones are lying, 
There my bones will never lie. 
* #■ * * •* 
Mine shall be a lonelier ending, 
Mine shall be a wilder grave, 
Where the shout and shriek are blending, 

Where the tempests meet the wave; 
Or perhaps a fate more lonely 

In some drear and distant ward, 
Where my weary eyes meet only 
Hired nurse and sullen guard.' " 

Fraser's Magazine for January, 1840. 

Note 17, Stanza XXVIII. p. 99. 

44 And gleaming white her monument doth rise, 
Greeting the traveller's eye." 

44 A handsome marble tablet is now, it appears, on its way to 
Cape Coast." — Blanchqrd. 



THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO. 



THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO. 



THE PROMONTORY OF LEUCADIA, 

This is the spot , — 'tis here, tradition says, 
That hopeless love from this high towering rock 
Leaped headlong to oblivion, or to death. 
Oh, 'tis a giddy height ! my dizzy head 
Swims at the precipice!— 'tis death to fall. 

SOUTHEY. 

My life is in its last hour 

farewell, ye opening heavens ! 

Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 

Ye were not meant for me — earth ! take these atoms ! 

Manfred. 



The sun was sinking from soft Hellas' shore, 

Yet lingering still, as if he loved to pour 

His beams o'er towers and temples then sublime, 

But mouldering now beneath the tooth of Time; 

To kiss the sloping hills, and myrtle boughs, 

And flowers, and streams, and Lesbian maiden's brows, 

As they were warbling 'long the sultry vale 

Like blithesome birds, or lisping some love tale ; 



112 RECORDS F T H E HEART. 

Slowly he sunk, while far the deep waves rolled 
Beneath his fiery track like molten gold ; 
The spire, and minaret from the distant dome, 
And castle hoar, and fane, and royal home ; 
The olive grove, the dark majestic palm, 
The cypress sadd'ning in the pensive calm, 
And in the liquid distance many an isle 
Gleamed in his yellow beams and parting smile ; 
And there the lowing herds adown the hill 
Were winding to their homes by glade and rill ; 
The weary peasants by their cabin door, 
To their shrill pipes their simple idyls pour ; 
Maidens reclining 'neath the spreading trees, 
Bathe their dark brows in the refreshing breeze, 
Send their wild mirth along the vales afar, 
And greet with glowing eyes the evening star — 
O, who would deem at such soft twilight time 
Sorrow could rear her throne, in that delightful clime. 



High on Leucadia's famed and jutting rock, 
Whose rucro-ed base doth scorn the fearful shock 
Of ocean's waves, half veiled in evening shade, 
Sat Lesbian Sappho all for death arrayed : 



THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO. 113 

Around her beauteous form her tunic flung, 
And her dark tresses long and flowing hung 

© © o 

Down to the rock, steeped in the briny dew, 

And gently waving as the breezes blew 

Along the lea. One small hand held her lute, 

The other rested on its strings all mute 

As they had never breathed one thrilling song 

Of fervent love, or anguish cherished long. 

Her swollen eyes dejected had not wept, 

Though her past life in one dark tissue swept 

Before her now — " I would sing one song more — 

One wild undying strain ere life be o'er ; 

And I would gather in this latest theme 

My sufferings — my heart's benighted dream, 

This fierce consuming flame that racks my soul, 

So that when Phaon glances o'er the scroll 

I leave, my fate may flash upon his heart 

Swift as from clouds the long pent lightnings start, — ■ 

Awake, my soul ! nor yet within me die ! 

Draw back the veil from thy deep agony ; — 

And chant but one song more, — one sad farewell 

To love and life : — oh ! breathe in it thy knell ! 

Thy requiem — a dagger make each tone — 

To pierce false Phaon's heart when I am gone !" 



114 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

She said ; then swept its straining chords — but fleet 
As struck, her lute fell shattered at her feet. — 
She gazed upon it as it quivering lay, 
And felt that thus her hopes had ever passed away. 

III. 

Upon that melting scene, those glowing skies, 
She cast around her sad and swimming eyes, 
And to them breathed one silent, long farewell ; 
For in her earlier years they held a spell 
Upon her lute, and she had of them sung 
Ere darker passions had her bosom wrung. 
Turning far thence, she gazed across the sea, 
To where young Phaon dwelt, — bright Sicily ; 
Then her heart swelled — to every wo awake, 
And beat the narrow cage it could not break — 
"Yes, — yes, — inconstant Phaon ! thou art there 
Rejoicing, heedless of my lone despair — 
I see thee in the laurel-grove — thy noble form 
Move on, — a maiden hanging on thine arm, 
And drinking thy sweet words erst breathed to me— 
Forsake me, reason — thought — and memory ! — 
I see thee in the gay Sicilian dance, 



THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO. 115 

Bending upon the fair thy tender glance ; 

Where jewels gleam, and where soft beauty glows ; 

The song swells high, the crowned goblet flows ; 

Thy smile — my heart's once light upon thy brow ; 

I see thee by a beauteous maiden now — 

Love's fickle vows — thy witching flatteries hear, 

As thou dost breathe them in her willing ear. 

O misery ! why am I thus awake ? 

Sad heart of mine, Oh ! wilt thou never break ? 

There's but one remedy for such deep wo; 

A fearful antidote — but be it so ! 

And must I go ? — from thee no farewell sigh ; 

No word to soothe my last keen agony ; 

No smile to cheer me in the hour of death ? — 

Oh ! for some power swift as the tempest's breath, 

To catch my dying shriek as I depart, 

And ring it as a death-knell in thy heart. 

And yet I would not chide thee, Phaon. — No ! 
But I would wake thee to a sense of wo, 
And all the misery that thou hast wrought, 
And why a home beneath the waves I sought 
When thou wast far away : may peace be thine ! 
The gods preserve thee from a fate like mine ! 
The quick and fevered pulse, the tears that blind, 
The heart's dark void, the canker of the mind ; 



116 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And if to 'parted spirits power be given, 
To leave the high abode they hold in heaven, 
Oh, I will guide thy footsteps from all wo, 
Thy guardian Angel be while lingering here below. 



IV. 

Phaon, thou wast the fond reality 

Of my youth's cherished dream, — the phantasy 

That hath beguiled me from my earliest days, 

Luring me on — the theme of all my lays, 

The pole-star of my heart in grief or joy, 

The day-spring of my life, my Deity ! 

That I might win thy love, and make thee mine— 

O dream too pure, too heavenly, too divine 

For earth ! — I've toiled through long and weary years, 

In hours I stole from sleep and life's dull cares, 

And earned a laurel for my fading brow, 

That will not wither like thy fragile vow ; — 

Yes, I have swept my lyre through Lesbian isles, 

Till it has won from kings their softest smiles ; 

And royal dames have worshipped where I trod, 

As there had been enshrined their favorite god ; 

The proud have sought my hand, — the high of birth 

Have knelt to me, as I were not of earth ; 



THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO. 117 

But these are nothing, since they fail to move 
Thy heart, and gain for me thy constant love. 
This was the die on which I staked my all, 
And I, alas ! have lost, and perish in thy thrall. 



V. 



And now, to Thee, thou wild and mighty Sea ! 
Terrific emblem of futurity ! 
That in thy restless might dost round me roll, 
And chafe thyself like my own troubled soul ; 
Upon whose fickle bosom none can trace, 
The pathways of the dead unto their place 
Of endless rest. From blighting storms of life, 
From my own heart's corroding fires and strife, — 
The flame that hath no sure relief but death, 
I come to seek for peace, thy waves beneath. 
Ope now thy breast, and hide forever there 
My lifeless form — my fondness and despair !" 
She said, then drew her robe around her close, 
And calmly as reclining to repose 
At eventide, from that tremendous height, 
Headlong descended to eternal night, 
On sea-weed beds to rest in slumbers sweet, 
The boundless main her tomb, the waves her winding sheet. 



LAONE. 



LAONE 



I. 

Where a green vale wends on its flowery way, 
Dividing the umbrageous sloping wood, 
Hemmed in by mountains shadowy and tall, 
And hills, where graze the herds the livelong day, 
Or pant beneath the cool and spreading boughs, 
Lonely and dim the village church-yard lies. 

The tuneful birds of day and closing eve 
Have sought their balmy rest — the flocks are penned- 
The stars look from their silvery thrones on high, 
And the full moon smiles 'mong the lonely graves, 
Placid as youthful mother watching o'er 
The silent couches of her slumbering babes. 

6 



122 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

O'er some the mournful Willow folds her arms, 
And Roses drench their cheeks with dewy tears ; 
While others, thick o'ergrown by tangled weeds, 
Tombless, unepitaphed, neglected lie. 
Along the outer walks dark Poplars stand — 
Sad sentinels around the crowded yard ; 
And where their shadows fall along the ground 
And thrifty grass, rises the little church. 



II. 



Within this spot are gathered to their homes 

The rich man, and the beggar, and the sage, 

And the poor idiot who never sipped 

At learning's fount. Here babes and tender mothers, 

Husbands and wives, tried friends, and youthful lovers, 

Lie side by side together, yet apart 

How far ! No greetings kind they interchange ; 

No social converse ever here is held ; 

No fierce disputes, nor tears, nor sighs, nor moans, 

Nor quick'ning pulses, through these chambers rise 

To break the solemn stillness of the tomb ; 

But each in his pale drapery slumbereth on 

In silence deep, and equally alone, 

Save one, who holds a new and humble grave. 



LAONE. 123 



III. 



By it a maiden kneels, so fair — so young, 
It seems she has not twice eight winters seen ; 
A loose white robe enveloping her form, 
The tapering arms all bare, and on her neck, 
Clear as descending snow, her long black hair 
Hanging like sable drapery. 

By her side 
A little basket of fresh flowerets sat, 
And from it she drew forth the milk-white rose, 
Watered it with her tears, and planted it 
Upon the humble grave, and bade it bloom 
Above the dead — then clasped her lily hands, 
Raised her pale brow and streaming eyes to heaven, 
And said, in tones so plaintive, yet so sweet, 
That one might deem it were an Angel spoke — 
" Forgive me, O my God ! I knew not what 
I did ! Relieve this anguish-stricken heart — 
This load of guilt — this agony remove : — 
Ianthus ! sorrowful hath been my days, 
Since here they laid thee down — woful my nights, 
And horrible the shapes that haunt my dreams. — 
I knew not thou wast dear, till thou wast gone ; 



124 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

I felt not that I was alone till then — 

An orphan — friendless — helpless, and that thou 

Only on earth didst love and care for me ; — 

When thou wast here, all things to me were bright — 

JCind friends smiled on me ever as they passed, 

With tender looks of approbation sweet ; 

Now thou art gone, there is no smile for me — 

No love ; — cold every gaze that meets mine eye. — 

My troubled father from his grave comes back, 

Upbraiding follows me along the vales ; 

My mother's ghost frowns on me in my dreams ; — 

The flowers, the birds, the streams, all — all do chide, 

Reproach, and curse me for thy mournful fate. — 

Oh ! I am desolate — alone on earth — 

Forsaken — a wanderer— Ianthus, oh ! 

I would lay down this life to bring thee back, 

To hear from thy dear lips one pardoning word ; — 

But wo is me!" She cried, and threw herself 

Upon the sod, and with her snowy arms 

The cold turf clasped. 



L A N E 



IV 



125 



It is a mournful tale — 
Laone's grief, the beautiful, the young: 
She was an orphan — circumstance her fate 
Strangely and sadly shaped. In her tenth year, 
Her aged father from his dying bed 
His white locks slowly raised — low beat his pulse, 
And shook his frame, as shake the quivering chords 
Of rudely-stricken lute. Upon his brow, 
Furrowed and high, Death had his signet set, 
And on his cheeks the tears like ice-drops hung : 
Beside him stood a youth, whose slender frame, 
Parched up with the slow fever of his thought, 
And pale and deep-lined brow, told he had burned 
The midnight oil, and drunk at Helicon. 
Long in low voice with him the old man spake ; 
Then clasped in his the student's bony hand, 
And gazed upon his face, as he would drink 
His inmost thoughts, and leave upon his heart 
Impress of this his last imploring look ; 
Then called the little girl, who wept aside, 
And placed her hand within the youth's, and said, — 
"Ianthus, she is thine ! Poor helpless child ! 



126 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

She is the scion of her race — the last 
Of all my family whom dire disease 
Hath left to me. — 

Her mother — heavenly saint ! — 
Ten years ago this day — the hour this child 
First saw the light — died in these arms, and then, 
By a contagious fever that cut down 
Its thousands here, two lovely daughters fell ; — 
The angry sea closed o'er my only son, 
And she is all that cruel death did spare 
For my old stricken heart to cling around. — 
I've watched her infancy — her tender years, 
Ianthus ! hung around her helpless cradle, 
Day, night, as she had been a priceless gem ; 
Have seen her grow, her youthful mind expand, 
And heard the first sweet lispings of her tongue : — 
'Twould not be hard to die, at this old age ! 
But for my child ! — Look on a dying man — ■ 
Ianthus, look ! — in presence of thy God — 
While on the margin of eternity 
I stand — hear this my last behest ! be kind, 
Be faithful to my child ! — 'tis a cold world ! " — 
And then the old man's tears gushed forth anew, — 
" Guard well her helplessness!" — he faintly cried, 
And upward turned his glazed eyes to heaven, 



L A N E . 127 

Kind blessings asked upon the youthful pair — 
His icy lips pressed on their clasped hands, 
Then calmly sank into the arms of death. 



Ianthus with strange feelings took the girl, 

With the scant pittance which her father left, 

Unto his widowed mother's home, that stood 

Concealed within a little oaken grove, 

Bordering upon a pleasant vale, retired 

And neat. Thenceforward all else lost 

Their wonted influence — for aught than her 

He had no thought, no wish, no hope, no smile, — 

Light was but where she dwelt — life where she moved. 

Music and poetry — all that adorns, 

Raises, or purines the youthful mind, 

He taught that girl — ah! happy task to him, 

For well his fondest labours were repaid 

By the improvement of his lovely charge. 

Beneath his care, he saw the mental bud 

Unfold its golden petals day by day, 

And beauty opening like the early rose. 



128 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



VI. 



At length her fifteenth year arrived — the day — 

The hour, that was to make him ever blessed, 

When he should to his bosom take the flower, 

That his own hand so tenderly had reared 

Into full bloom, was fixed ; — bright beamed his eye !• 

High beat his noble heart with love and hope ! — 

Beautiful before him lay life's onward road — 

No lowering cloud — no shadow hovered there, 

To intercept its golden-tinted light — 

Joy beaming on his brow, her bower he sought, 

Where with her books she spent the primal hour, 

To spread before her all his happy plans, 

And meet sweet approbation in her smile. 

But oft the brightest sun is soon eclipsed : — 

Not her own grave fresh opened could have brought 

Unto her heart so keen and quick a pang — 

So instant stricken from her cheek its rose — 

Such thought had never cross' d her artless mind. 

Hers was that kind and ever-trusting love 

A sister bears a brother, who hath lent 

A willing hand to guard her helpless state ; — 

No other felt — no other could suspect : 



L A N E . 129 

'Twas poison dashed upon the cup of bliss. 
Speechless awhile upon the turf she sate 
Abashed — her languid eyes cast to the ground — 
Then on his bosom firm refusal wept. 
As from a snake— as from some reptile vile, 
Or fiend, that man may fear, and shun, and hate, 
The venomed arrow rankling in his heart, 
Concealing the warm current of his veins, 
Iaxthus from the sobbing girl recoiled. 
Then cold at heart, and pale, and stern, he rose, 
Folded his arms, and on her at one o-lance 
The depths of his soul's disappointment hurled, 
And strode away, with firm and hasty step : 
No more himself Ianthus — the kind friend, 
The w r atchful guardian — doating lover fond ; 
No more he called to lead her on their walks, 
When birds had tuned their evening harps, 
And filled the valleys with soft melody ; 
No more he heard as erst the wonted task — 
Never again his pale lips breathed her name ; 
Never again a genial ray of love 
Beamed from his eye to cheer her lonely lot ; 
The air he breathed — the flowers along his way, 
Did even of his mournfulness partake. 

All day beside the streams, or mountain brink, 

6* 



130 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Or in some little nook along the vale, 

His arms cross'd on his breast, and matted hair 

Strewn o'er his pale and haggard brow, he strode ; 

Or in some long-frequented path went on, 

Torn by that wo and silent agony 

That eats into the soul. Oft she would seek 

To meet him in his walks, and audience gain ; 

Oft in his lonely wanderings follow near, 

With some kind pledge of love to bid him take. 

But he would pass her aye unnoticed by — 

Never again he raised his vacant eyes 

To hers to greet her smile, or take the flowers 

Selected from the vales to deck his room, 

But onward kept his silent, brooding way. 



VII 



A few days thus he wrestled with his grief, 
Then from his barred window came the cry, — 
The piteous moan — the yell — the frantic shriek, 
That doth bespeak the mighty mind o'erthrown, 
And reason gone — the chambers of the lofty soul 
Peopled with dark and fearful shapes.— 



LA N E. 131 



VIII 



'Tis past !— 
Silence and tears are in the widow's home — 
Death hath been there. — On through the little grove, 
Towards the church, a small procession winds — 
They reach the open grave — around it stand, 
And lay, with tears and solemn orisons, 
The broken-hearted in his last abode. 



IX 



And there, as stars look from their placid noon, 
In the calm stillness of the midnight hour, 
Her locks bedewed, beside the dead she sits. 
Ah ! what of fear recks she ! — her thoughts dwell not 
On earthly things — a holier flight they soar : 
Morn, noon, and evening found her hovering there ; 
And as she passed, matrons, and maidens fair, 
Who knew her story sad — and loved her much, 
Looked on her young and fading form, and wept, 
And said, " Poor thing ! she looks not like herself — 
Ah ! soon beside Ianthus she will lie !" 



132 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



X 



Time passed anon — the village bell was tolled — 
Young maidens came and decked her for the tomb ; 
And in white robes they bore her to the grave, 
And by him laid her down to peaceful dreams. 



THE BRIDE OE GUAYAQUIL 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL, 



I. 

Where Chimborazo rears his top 
Until he seems the heavens to prop, 
And at his feet Pacific rolls 
His yeasty tide o'er rocky shoals 

In fierce festivity ; 
The lofty palms and cedars stand 
In shadowy files along his strand, 
And comes the reptile's fearful hiss 
From chasm deep and dark abyss, 
The owlet from his covert hoots, 
And the wild steed like meteor shoots, 

Proud of his liberty ; 
Why, on a little mound of turf, 
Washed by the passing streamlet's surf, 
Her garments soiled — her hair unbound, 
Her brow with weeping willows wound, 



136 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

A rusty falchion by her side, 
Dwells lonely Guayaquil's fair Bride 

In pensive mournfulness ? 
Why, in that lonely desert spot, 
Where man dwells not in cave or cot, 
Nor human footsteps ever stray, 
Save hunter who hath lost his way, 
Or pilgrim that bewildered roves 
O'er rocky dells and shallow coves 

In awe and deep distress, 
Midst thunder, storm, and rain, and sleet, 
The blood oft oozing from her feet — 
A very skeleton her frame, 
Her only food the feathered game, 
Her scanty roof a shelving rock, 
That trembles 'neath the tempest's shock, 

Doth ever bide 

That youthful Bride? 



II 



One eve unto a pilgrim old, 

Who, wildered, strayed along the wold, 

That mournful Bride her story told. — 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 137 

" I was a hunter's only daughter, 
Who dwelt by Guayaquil's dark water, 
And early me in wedlock gave, 
Unto a youthful warrior brave ; 
But scarcely were we wed a day, 
When he, alas ! was called away 
To join afar bold Bolivar, 
And help to quell the blast of war. 
Week after week, and months went by, 
And still I heard not of my Guy, 
Nor if the war continued yet, 
Which me with dreadful fears beset ; 
And, tortured with the mad'ning thought 
That he had falPn, the shore I sought 
One eve, and walked along the strand, 
With streaming eyes and clasped hand, 
Then sat me down upon the sand, 
With the vain hope that I might see 
His white sail fluttering on the sea. 
Long through the pale, uncertain light 
Across the wave I strained my sight, 
But nothing meeting there mine eye, 
Save water, mist, and starry sky, 
My spirit wandered to my Guy, 
Along the wild Peruvian plain, 



138 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Where weltering thickly lay the slain. — 
I heard the cannon's deaf 'ning roar, 
I saw run warm the warrior's gore 

Along the battle-field, 
The fearful sabre's glittering flash, 
Amidst the ranks the war-horse dash 
Over the dead, a ghastly sight ; 
My Guy now mingling in the fight, 

Then bleeding on his shield. 

III. 

" 'Twas thus I sat in revery, 

From every fear of danger free, 

When a strong arm entwined my waist, 

Across my face a bandage placed, 

And lifted me upon a steed, 

Then urged it to its fleetest speed. 

Fast in the robber's grasp I lay, 

As on the charger flew away 

O'er mountain, heath, and winding vale, 

Athwart abyss and rocky dale, 

His lofty head above us tost, 

Snorting as gulf and stream he cross'd, 

Till sight and sound and sense were lost. 



THE BRIDE OP GUAYAQUIL. 139 



IV 



" How life to me that night was spared— 
The dangers that the courser dared — 
The distance over which he flew 
To reach the cave, I never knew. 
When sense again to me returned, 

I lay upon a squalid mat 
Near which a sickly taper burned, 

And lowering dark the bandit sat ; 
But 'twas a momentary gleam 
That darted o'er delirium's dream — 
The licrhtninor's flash across the clouds, 
That darkness instantly enshrouds. 
It might be weeks, or months perchance, 
Ere reason broke again its trance, 
Or fitful ray of conscious light 
Beamed in upon my mental night. 

" At length I woke — I was alone — 
Alone within that desert cave, 

Where I could hear but ocean's moan, 
The fierce contending breakers rave, 



140 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

The sea-gull in her wildest mood 
Shriek from her liquid solitude. 
The taper burned as heretofore 
Discovering the slimy floor, 
The grisly, shelving rocks above, 
That might to fear a demon move — 
So desolate, and dark, and drear, 
They gleamed around me far and near. 
At first a faintness o'er me came, 
And sank again my weary frame; 
My sight grew dim, and reeled my brain. 

Around me hideous visions lowered, 
Mad phrenzy raged through every vein — 

But sense and reason were restored 
At last. Then I the cave would pace, 
Its gloomy length and windings trace, 
And feel my way from side to side, 
Along its dripping edges glide, 
Each orifice and crevice try 
That would my slender form deny ; 
Then by the taper's flickering ray 
Backward again slow grope my way, 
And fling me on my scanty bed, 
My temples press, and throbbing head, 
And sob till in the land of dreams 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 141 

I strolled along my natal streams, 
Linked hand in hand with Ali Guy ; 
Or sat upon some terrace nigh, 
Telling the story of my wrong 
And sufferings the dreary caves among. 



" Time dragged its weary length along, 
With naught the moments to compute ; 

All, save wild Ocean's wailing song, 
Around that spot to me were mute — 

Or stealthy steps that I could hear 

In the adjoining caverns near. 

A spider weaving webs above 

My lonely couch, I learned to love ; 

To it my long complaints would pour, 

And tell my sorrow o'er and o'er ; 

While reptiles with envenomed stings 

Crawled round me, tame and harmless things, 

Nor longer seemed they hostile foes, 

But meek companions of my woes ; 

And when along the ground they crept, 

Aside with fear I never stept, 



142 RECORDS OF THE HEART, 

Nor felt I in their presence dread, 

For in them oft I seemed to read 

Intelligence — a power to see 

And comprehend my misery. 

The days — the nights were all the same — 

I knew not when they went or came ; 

I wept, till I could weep no more ; — 

I hoped — till hope, alas ! gave o'er — 

To rescue me I soon should hear 

My Ali's steps approaching near. 

But not a human form appeared, 

Nor friendly step, nor voice I heard ; 

Nor through the rocks a ray of light 

Stole in to glad my aching sight. 

My food was brought me in my sleep — 

(If it was sleep, that came to steep 

My senses in forgetfulness 

And mitigate my deep distress,)— 

And oil to feed the dying light, 

My only star in constant night. 

It seemed that they had left me there, 

To linger on in my despair, 

Till madness should abate again, 

Or Death relieve me from my pain. 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 143 



VI. 



" At last, in the extremest end, 
Where I was forced my form to bend 
Between the cliffs, so scant the room, 
Feeling my way amidst the gloom, 
Ascending o'er the crags I went 
Till in the rock I found a rent — 
Made by the battling element, 
Or rushing bolt of rapid thunder 
In fiery w r rath had riven asunder : — 
And oh ! I ne'er could mortal tell, 

Though power from upper worlds were given ? 
The joy I felt when on me fell 

In that dark den the light of Heaven. 
My pulses like a courser leaped — 
My streaming tears my bosom steeped — - 
My temples throbbed — my brain reeled round — 
I shrieked — I sank upon the ground, 
And crossed my breast, and raised my eyes 
In thankfulness to Paradise ; 
For through that scanty fissure seemed 
The light of worlds upon me streamed, 



144 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Reviving hope's sweet smile again, 
Sending new life through every vein, 
And mitigating half my pain. 
I heard the cool airs sighing low, 
I felt them breathing on my brow 
Like some sweet angel from above, 
Administ'ring the balm of love ; 
And soon I thought some hunter near 
Passing my cries might chance to hear, 
Convey the news to Ali Guy, 
Who quick would to my rescue fly, 
Upon the fiend avenge my wrong, 
And put to flight the bloody throng. 



VII. 

I sought no more my gloomy bed, 
Nor sickly light the taper shed, 
Save there to get the little food 
Nature requires in solitude ; 
But ever on a rocky nook 
My seat beside that crevice took — 
To me a heavenly, bright retreat — 
And peered out on the azure sky 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 145 

Till sea and heaven appeared to meet, 

Mingling in blue immensity ; 
Or looked down from the towering height 
Till brain grew dizzy with the sight. 
Before me tree nor forest lay, 
Nor mountain stretching far away 
In the ethereal distance gray, 
But one unbroken sheet of ocean, 
Slumb'ring without apparent motion, 
So dark, so distantly it rolled 
Beneath that cave and craggy wold : 
And there a bird would sit and sing, 
The livelong day with folded wing — 
If bird it was — I could not tell, 
For it was imperceptible : 
I could not see it come or go, 
I only heard its gushing flow 
Of sweetest, saddest melody, 
Which made me think that it might be 
A guardian Spirit from on high 
Sent down to soothe my misery, 



146 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



VIII. 

" At last one morn — if I could tell 

By light that through the crevice fell 

When morning came — above my head 

I heard a hasty, heavy tread, 

Then all in breathless silence hushed : — 

Down from my seat I wildly rushed, 

Darted the narrow passes through, 

Along the gloomy cavern flew, 

My soul by horrid bodings stirred, 

Where former footsteps I had heard ; 

And then — Oh ! God ! the sound that broke 

Upon my ear, of sabre stroke, 

And fearful blow, and grapple dire 

Of vengeance in her hottest ire : 

Faster and fiercer grew the fight, 

Foe leaped on foe with deadlier might, 

Till open burst a secret door, 

Discovering the crimson floor, 

My Ali struggling with the fiend — - 

My captor — once his vowed friend, 

Lately his rival for my hand, 

And now the leader of this band, — 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 147 

And shrieking in their midst I flew, 
My form between the warriors threw, — 
Aghast the combatants displaced, 

Who, paralyzed, a moment stood, 

And all the lowering bandits rude ; 
Then Guy entwined his left arm round my waist, 
In clasp as strong as coiling serpent's fold, 
And with the right swung high his sabre bold, 
The robber's bosom fiercely, deeply cleft, 
His desperate band felled round him right and left, 
Till stood not one opposing foe 
To bar his path or deal a blow, 
As from the frightful fray he bore 
My senseless form besmeared with gore, 
And laid me on the dewy turf, 
And o'er me flung the streamlet's surf. — 

" But stranger, oh ! the direful hour 
That sense resumed its wonted power ! 
I would that hour had never been — 
Yes, rather far I ne'er had seen 
My Ali more, than woke to know 
That he for me had suffered so. — 
Above my form he bleeding bent, 
With pallid brow T and gaze intent. 



14S RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

To catch once more my feeble cry 
Ere death should seal his destiny. 
Questions he asked in eager tone, 
As life those questions hung upon ; 
And then in weak and faltering words, 
That stirred my spirit's deepest chords, 
He said — that he returned the day 
Next after I'd been torn away, 
And mad and frantic sought the wood 
He knew to be his foe's abode, 
Descried him skulking on the shore, 
From whence he fled into a moor, 
Where he had kept him close at bay 
Until the breaking of that day ; 
When over pass, and mount, and fell, 

He tracked him to his secret cell ; 

Then pressed my lips — O God ! the chill- 
The icy pang — I feel it still ! 
A.nd clasped me to his streaming breast, 
With hand upraised high Heaven bless'd 
That he had able been to save 
Me from a lone, dishonored grave ; 
Then dim and glazed became his eyes — 
Late glowing warmly as the skies 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 149 

That lay in calmness hushed above, 
Smiling upon our hallowed love — 
And dizzy, reeling, backward fell, 
Gasping — ' Zimene ! fare thee well ! ; 

IX. 

" I wound my arms around his neck — 

I tried the gushing blood to check — 

I filled the vale with hideous sounds, 

Tore out my hair to stanch his wounds, 

Wept — sobbed — and strove to soothe his pain — 

To call him back to life again — 

But all too late ! The die was cast — 

Those sacred accents were his last — 

To other worlds of peaceful light 

His spirit winged its heavenward flight. 



X. 



" I gazed upon his moveless brow, 
Where love his impress fixed e'en now ; 
The lips — the glazed eyes were closed — 
It seemed he only there reposed ! — 



150 RECORDS U F THE HEART. 

I could not think those lips no more 

The song of love to me would pour 

At eve, along our native vale, 

Nor tell the legendary tale. 

I pressed his cheek — its marble chill 

Shot through my heart an icy thrill — 

And back I shrank, and gasped for breath, 

For then I knew that it was death ; 

That he my worshipped one was gone — 

That I was in the world alone ; 

And frantic from the sod I sprung, 

My hands in agony I wrung, 

And paced this dreary spot around, 

My feet receiving many a wound, 

My garments rent, and tore my hair, — 

So deep, so wild was my despair ; 

And stamped my foot upon the ground, 

And shrieked till Andes echoed back the sound. 

And by the faithful love I bore 

My Ali and high heaven, I swore 

That bird, nor beast, nor gnawing worm 

Should desecrate my warrior's form ; 

Then gathered leaf, and twig, and limb, 

And flowers, and strewed them over him 

So thick that not a piercing ray 



THE BRIDE OF GUAYAQUIL. 151 

Of envious heat could find its way. 
Full many a day and weary night 
I watched alone that ghastly sight ; 
The covering rude aside would lay, 
To note the progress of decay, 
That every hour a deeper mould 
Spread o'er his cheek and forehead cold. 



XI 



" The second day a vulture came, 
Eager my hallowed charge to claim ; 
But with my shrieks and falchion light, 
The hideous bird I put to flight. 
The third a raven lighted nigh, 
But frightened by my anxious cry, 
Slowly again it sought the sky : 
Then rav'ning wolves around me came, 
With whetted teeth and eyes of flame, 
Which long I strove to keep at bay, 
To save from them the treasured prey ; 
And once I thought that they had gone, 
And I in peace was left alone, 
But in the night -I heard their bark, 

The growling pack approaching nigher- 



152 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Then from my steel I struck a spark 

That instant lit the sacred pyre ; 
And when the solemn task was done, 
The prowling beasts had left me lone. 
Turf, stones and flowers, from glen and glade, 
I brought, and on the ashes laid, 
With withered leaves that fell around, 
Until I reared this little mound, 
Where ever since in mournful mood 
I dwell in ceaseless solitude ; 
And here, till fate or death compel 
My exit, I will ever dwell, 
Midst rain, and storm, and hail, and frost, 
Still watching o'er the hallowed trust, 
Sole guardian of my faithful Ali's dust !" 



GERTRUDE. 



LINES 



ON RECEIVING THE PICTURE OF GERTRUDE, A YOUNG AND 
UNFORTUNATE POETESS. 



M 5 ha cangiata il dolor fiero ed atroce 

Ch' a fatica la voce 

Puo di me dar la conoscenza vera. 

VlTTORIA COLONNA, 

And art thou, fair one, thus so desolate r 
Of friends and hopes bereft ? thy young love spurned : 
Thy crushed affections thrown back on thy heart, 
To wither and decay like autumn's leaves ? 



'Tis thou ! those eyes that darkly seem to glow, 
Those lips, those sable curls, that lofty brow, 
And mien, and lineaments are all thine own, 
Though sadly changed ; the vermeil blush is gone, 
And that soft smile of buoyancy and glee, 
That tell the maiden's heart is light and free. — 
'Tis thou ! I saw thee in youth's giddy hours, 



156 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

When thou wast bright as morning's opening, flowers 

In dewy May — when from those languid eyes 

Bright genius flashed, and hope's sweet fantasies, 

And holy thought, and dreams of earthly bliss 

Each feature kindled into loveliness. 

And I have seen thee in the gorgeous hall, 

The cynosure of the gay festival ; 

That snowy brow with rosy chaplets bound, 

That graceful form amidst the dance float round, 

While music all thy soul's high feelings woke, 

And from those eyes thought eloquently spoke ; 

When all that smiles on earth or wakens love — 

The Naiad's notes, the warblings of the grove, 

The voice of spring, the mellow tones of even, 

The breeze of summer, and the airs of heaven, 

The leaping rill that laughed along its way, 

Found a soft echo in thy gushing lay. 

But oh, how changed ! it breathes no more of streams, 

And groves, and fairy sprites, and youth's bright dreams ; 

Love's doleful requiem, hope's funeral knell, 

Are now the only music of thy shell. 

That mien is sad, those cheeks are pale with care — 
Ah ! bitter tears and sorrow have been there — 



GERTRUDE. 157 

Those eyes now tell a dark and mournful tale 
Of wrong and scorn, and thy young spirit's wail, 
And unrequited love — dear hopes long hushed 
Within thy breast — thy heart's best feelings crushed, 

Time hath not on that brow etched many years, - "] 
But grief hath marked on it deep characters 
s Of inward wretchedness. Calmness is there, 
But 'tis the calm that rises from despair — 
The fixedness the features still assume 
When hope and love no more our path illume, 
And the embittered spirit doth await 
With patience life's inevitable fate. 

Thy grief is deeper far than speech portrays, 

And yet upon that brow I love to gaze ; 

So much is beaming in that pensive face, 

Which wrong and sorrow never can efface ; 

So much of meekness, and of purity, 

And chastened thought, and sacred fantasy 

Are there, and Poesy's undying fire, 

That thrill my soul, and lofty thoughts inspire ; 

And though from thee life's brightest spells have fled, 

Love's halo circles not the false one's head; 



158 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Still genius holds her seat upon that brow, 
Lighting those pale and wasting features now, 
As the sun's pure and ever-constant light 
Lends beauty to the sorrowing moon by night. 



EMILIE. 



EMILIE 



It was a summer eve in Italy, 

Starlight, and the full moon, and soft blue sky, 

So tranquil, and so pensively serene, 

That one might smile or weep o'er such a scene. 

Calmly the Arno lay — the lighted tent 

Along its banks gleamed out where myrtles blent 

With citrons in a thick luxuriant screen — 

Gay groups were seated on the moonlit green, 

And music's deep, soul-stirring sounds, and song 

Arose, and laughter ringing from the throng, 

Where Florence had sent forth her bright array 

' Of youthful, gallant, beautiful, and gay.' 

And there moved one amidst that festival, 
Fairer and gentler — lovelier far than all, 



I£2 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

With queenly step, a soft and blushing cheek, 
And beaming eyes the buoyant heart that speak. 

Midst those gay scenes she walked, and danced, and smiled, 

Joined in the song as blithesome as a child ; 

Yet in her joyance was an under tone 

Of sadness, and of grief — the stifled moan — 

Untimely answers, oft a vacant stare, 

That told full well the soul was absent there. 

They heeded not the tear that filled her eye, 
The tremor of her lip, nor frequent sigh ; 
Too much each one was lost in revelry, 
The timid tears of secret love to see. 

At last, with beating heart and watchful glance, 

She left the brilliant crowd and merry dance, 

And hastened down a dim-lit avenue, 

Where citrons tall and tangled myrtle grew, 

Until she reached a spot where in the wood, 

Muffled in cloak, a lofty figure stood, 

Who forward came, took her fair trembling hand, 

And led her gently to the breezy strand — 

It was the gay and gallant Manlynlie : 

Upon his arm she leant — how trustingly ! 



E M I L I E . 163 

Listing those vows of constancy and love » 
That gentle woman's bane so often prove : 
With sweetest flatteries he strove to cheer 
Her spirit sad — His vehicle was near — 
Around her slender waist he twined his arm, 
And to it bore her light and fainting form. 

And she was happy in her distant home, 
Loved with that ardent flame that will consume 
Itself: — Alas! 'twas but a little while — 
A gush of sunlight — April's passing smile 
Upon the flowers, to give them life and light, 
Then leave them to the frost's untimely blight. 

Time passed — where was he now — proud Manlynlie ? — 

Her young heart's dream — her soul's idolatry ? — 

For whom she had forsaken kindred — fame ; — 

That priceless gem — a pure, unsullied name ? — 

Alas ! he worshipped one beyond the sea, 

Regardless of his weeping Emilie. 

She threw her mantle on, and silken veil, 
And hastened forth along the fading dale, 
Nor cared how far, or whitherward she went, 
So deep the inward wo her bosom rent. 



164 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Weary at last, she stopped beside a stream, 
That lay before her calm as childhood's dream ; 
Upon its flowery brink a moment stood, 
And on the water gazed in thoughtful mood, 
Placed one foot o'er the edge — then on the sod 
Shrank back, and called for mercy to her God. — 

And there, beneath the autumn sky, she sate, 
Alone, and homeless, friendless, desolate, 
Among the leaves — alas ! how like to them, 
Withered and severed from the parent stem, 
In silence from the earth to pass away, 
Midst wintry storms, and blasts, and slow decay. 
Deep penitence shook her heart's inmost core, 
Till hope and strength a moment all gave o'er, 
And on the turf she fell in wild despair, 
Around her streaming her long sable hair, 
Like a rich veil. Her sad thoughts wandered back 
To innocence and childhood's faded track, 
Parental love, and home ; — and there beamed yet 
One glimmering star of hope that had not set. 

She would return ! — perhaps there still might be 
Forgiveness for the erring Emilie ! — 
Her wrongs, her sufferings yet perchance might melt 
Her father's heart, — wake kindness he had felt 



EM I LI E 



165 



Ere from the path of duty she had strayed, 
In love's delusive snares had been betrayed. 

'Twas night again, and moon, and soft starlight, 
When her loved home once more broke on her sight — ■ 
There was the castle, the gay walks, and bowers, 
Where she had dwelt in innocence' sweet hours, 
And by her father's or her lover's side, 
Had moved in youthful bloom and beauty's pride. 
They seemed her wretchedness, her pain to mock ; — 
How could she live — how bear the pending shock ! — 
She clung unto a myrtle tree for aid, 
On her wild-beating heart her small hand laid, 
And gasped for breath. — There gleamed but one faint light 
Through that old castle's gorgeous curtains bright. 
She raised her eyes, and prayed for strength to bear 
Her shame, and bring her trembling footsteps near ; — 
She reached the door — there sat her hoary sire, 
And her fair sister singing to the lyre 
Whose chords 'neath her own touch so oft had thrilled, 
With softest melody that hall had filled. 
1 The song was one that she had often sung 
For him in happier days — the sad words rung 
Through her torn bleeding heart like a wild knell. 
His tears streamed fast — for her she knew they fell, 



166 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And leaned against a post for strength to greet 
Her sire — then forward sprung, and at his feet 
Shrieked out — " Forgive !" 

He raised her in his arms, 
Gazed on her face bereft of former charms, 
And recognized his child ! Back drooped her head- 
He kissed the parted lips — but she was dead. 






I A N T H E . 



I ANTHE 



A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 

Woman ! 

It is but dust thou look'st upon. 

Mrs, Hemans. 



It was a rural spot beside a stream, 
Kindled to beauty by the rosy beam 
Of the declining sun. Fresh flowers were there, 
Th' anemone and rose, and lily fair, 
Imparting softness to each rugged bough, 
As woman's smile unto man's rougher brow ; 
And pensively and slow the weeping willows 
Waved their dark tresses o'er the gliding billows 
The warbling songsters flitted to and fro, 

Delighted with their summer plumage gay : 
Sad Philomela poured forth soft and low 

Her plaintive requiem to departing day ; 
While rustling grove, and hill, and vale, and lea, 

Were rife with nature's breezy minstrelsy. 

8 



170 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And there, unheeding aught of this blithe glee, 

Or nightingale's ethereal melody, 

Upon the bank the fair Ianthe sate, 

In silent tears, alone and desolate. 

Her languid eyes fixed on the limpid tide, 

That by her tiny feet did noiseless glide, 

As life, away. Her soft cheek on her hand, 

Her sable ringlets straying from their band 

In glossy clusters o'er her neck of snow, 

And waving round her pale Madonna brow. 

He whom she loved too fond — too trustingly, 

For woman's happiness, had sworn to be 

Upon that spot at setting of the sun, 

To w r ed her ere another day begun ; 

And hope, beguiling still well-founded fear, 

Led her to meet her faithless Edmund here. 

Bright stars are glittering in the midnight sky, 

The moon looks from her silvery throne on high, 

And yet the truant lover is not there 

To call her from the stupor of despair. 

Pale as a marble statue still she sate, 

His coming uncomplainingly to wait. 

Long hours had passed since that young form had stirred, 



I AN THE. 171 

Or from those ashy lips one sob was heard : 
The last faint accents she had uttered clear, 
Were for her Edmund words of fervent prayer, 

At length, when night was far upon the wane, 
From festal halls and Beauty's smiling train, 
Like one on whom affection had no claim, 
Unto the spot the heedless lover came; 
For well he knew that gentle, trusting heart 
Would wait him till the morning star depart. 
And as he nearer came, his sight grew dim, 
Cold tremors, shook convulsively each limb, — 
He called aloud, but there was no reply — 
Ah ! what recks she of life's worst misery, 
And faithless man's neglect — fate's utmost woes ? 
Her sleep is calm as is a child's repose, 
Upon its mother's breast at eventide : 
He took the cold hand hanging by his side, 
Then dropped it quickly as a viper — " Dead ! 
Oh, God ! pour not thy vengeance on my head !" 
He shrieked, and from the spot a maniac fled. 



EDITH. 



EDITH 



I saw her on her mother's breast, 

A little nursling thing, 
There calmly, sweetly lulled to rest 

Beneath Affection's wing. 

I saw her playing 'mong the trees, 

With other smiling girls ; 
Like gossamer upon the breeze 

Flowed free her silken curls. 

I saw her in that loveliest hour, 
In first sweet maidenhood, 

When she was like an opening flower 
With dew-drops in its bud. 



176 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And her in festal halls I saw, 
Where glowed full many a gem, 

With nothing on her snowy brow 
But Beauty's diadem. 

There with that priceless jewel she 

Would bear her lofty part, 
And move the queen of festal glee, 

And sway the noblest heart. 

I saw her at the altar stand, 
A wreath was on her brow, 

With a smile she gave her lily hand 
For a false and fickle vow. 

And then I saw her — oh ! despair — 
The saddest thing on earth — 

Thrown o'er her neck her long rich hair, 
Beside a lowly hearth. 

Her moaning babe was cradled nigh, 

Her pale hand on it lay ; 
But she, to still its piteous cry, 

No soothing word did say. 



EDITH. 177 

Her marble brow and fixed eye 

Gleamed through her coal-black hair, 

And she — as cold as th' polar ice — 
A corpse was sitting there. 

And last I saw the black hearse come 

And take that lovely form, 
And bear it to an early tomb, 

Food for the hungry worm. 



8* 



LAIS. 



LAIS 



I tell thee, death were far more merciful 
Than such a blow. It is death to the heart — 
Death to its first affections— its sweet hopes. 

L. E. L. 



Its holy flame forever burneth, 

From heaven it came — to heaven returneth. 

Southey. 



I 



Yes, they have said the fatal word 
That bids us tread this earth apart, 

Crushed every hope that life endeared, 
But have not struck thee from my heart, 

They bid me on another smile, 

They bid me breathe another's name, 

But oh ! they know not that the while 
'Tis fuel added to the flame. 



182 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

To thee, I'll ever constant prove, 
All sorrows suffer for thy sake — 

The tie that binds our hearts in love 

Is not for mortal hands to break. 

Forever they may part us here, 

Between us place the boundless sea, 

It will but render thee more dear — 
They cannot tear my heart from thee ! 

With roses they may wreathe my brow, 
And lead me to the holy shrine, 

And wring from me the nuptial vow, 
Believe my heart I there resign : 

But when a few brief days have past, 
And they to greet me hither come, 

And find my brow with grief o'er cast, 
And shadows dwelling in my home — 

Ah ! then they'll watch my silent wo, 
My fading cheek, and wasting form, 

And glittering pomp around me throw, 
But find it hath for me no charm ; — 



LAIS. 183 

And speak kind words — but speak in vain, 
And try with smiles, and mirth, and song, 

To brink back cheerfulness again, 
And mitigate their cruel wrong. 

But hot tears stealing from mine eye, 

The hectic deep'ning on my cheek, 
The hollow moan, and broken sigh, 

Their fatal work too late will speak. 

II. 

MY LOVE FOR THEE. 

A SONG. 

My love for thee was not of earth, 
'Twas fraught with that celestial zeal, 

That ne'er in coarser souls hath birth, 
That none but heavenward spirits feel ; 

It flung around my soul a spell 

That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. 

It filled my mind with purer themes, 

It taught me language erst unknown, 
Gave loftier flight to fancy's dreams, 

My lute inspired with sweeter tone ; 



184 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And flung around my soul a spell 
That ne'er can die with earth's farewell 

It shed below a holier light 

Than ever sun or star hath given, 

It rent the films that veiled my sight, 

Forever linked my thoughts with heaven ; 

And flung around my soul a spell 

That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. 



III. 

IMPROMP TU 

ON BEING ASKED "WHY THIS GLOOM?" 

Ask not, alas ! whence is this gloom, 

This dark cloud on my brow, 
Why fadeth thus my cheek's fresh bloom, 

Or why so pensive now. 

Ask not, dear friend, why steal the tears 

In silence from mine eye, 
Why anguish in my look appears, 

Or why so oft I sigh ; — 



LAIS. 185 



For there are woes too deep for speech, 

Feelings too finely strung 
For human sympathy to reach, 

Sorrows that have no tongue. 



IV 



THE HEART'S WORST PANG. 

It is a wo beyond all other woes, 
A canker over which the heart may close, 
But cannot heal. A gnawing worm, whose tooth 
Saps in the bud the flowerets of life's youth, 
And makes the heart a ruin — a lone waste 
Where only spring the weeds of bitterness — 
An aspic coiled around the cup of bliss, 
Whose sparkling draughts, alas ! we dare not taste ? 
The deepest sorrow that stern Fate can bring 
In all her catalogue of suffering : 
An eating rust — the spirit's direst pain, 
To love — adore — and be beloved again, 
Yet know between us lies a gulf that ever 
Our forms, our hopes, our destinies must sever. 



THE MISANTHROPE 



THE MISANTHROPE 



Adown a narrow winding vale, 

His thin locks waving in the gale, 

High on a jutting crag he sate 

Brooding upon his weary fate, 

While woes perchance we may not tell — 

Or fancy, did his bosom swell, 

As on the moaning element 

These words in piteous tones he sent : 

" Away — away — ye pangs of wo, 
Distract no more this throbbing brain, 
My heart with brighter hopes shall glow, 
And freer beat each pulse and vein : 



190 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Long have I been thy servile prey, 

Grief! and worshipped at thy shrine; 
But now from thee I'll flee away, 

And in the giddy circle shine. 

" No more I'll court gray solitude, 
No more to gloomy thoughts give way, 
No more o'er human sorrows brood 5 
Nor shun the youthful circle gay : 
No more I'll seek this lonely dell, 
To give my stricken heart relief, 
Midst blither scenes henceforth to dwell, 
I'll bid a long farewell to Grief. 

" O Sorrow ! had I known ere this, 
To steel my breast against thy dart, 

1 had not felt such wretchedness, 
I had not borne a broken heart ; 
My days had not so sadly past, 

My nights have rolled so darkly by, 
These clouds had not my brow o'ercast, 
Nor yet my soul had learned to sigh : 

" And though youth's buoyancy has fled, 
And life's best, brightest years have sped. 



THE MISANTHROPE. 191 

My pulse is low, my frame is weak, 
And bitter grief hath dimmed my cheek, 
Without one friend to hear my wo 
Or speak one word to soothe my pain— 
I'll stop these burning tears that flow, 
And seek the busy world again. 5 ' 



THE FORSAKEN 



9 



THE FORSAKEN. 



It hath been said — for all who die 

There is a tear ; 
Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh 

O'er every bier : — 
But in that hour of pain and dread, 

Who will draw near 
Around my humble couch and shed 

One farewell tear? 

Who watch life's last dim parting ray 

In deep despair, 
And soothe my spirit on its way 

With holy prayer ? 



196 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

What mourner round my bier will come 

' In weeds of wo, 5 
And follow me to my long home — 

Solemn and slow? 

When lying on my clayey bed, 

In icy sleep, 
Who there by pure affection led 

Will come and weep ; 
By the pale moon implant the rose 

Upon my breast, 
And bid it cheer my dark repose, 

My lowly rest ? 

Could I but know when I am sleeping 

Low in the ground, 
One faithful heart would there be keeping 

Watch all night round, 
As if some gem lay shrined beneath 

That sod's cold gloom, 
'Twould mitigate the pangs of death, 

And light the tomb. 

Yes, in that hour if I could feel, 
From halls of glee 



THE FORSAKEN. 197 

And Beauty's presence one would steal 

In secrecy, 
And come and sit and weep by me 

In night's deep noon — 
Oh ! I would ask of memory 

No other boon. 

But ah ! a lonelier fate is mine, 

A deeper wo ; 
From all I love in youth's sweet time 

I soon must go ; 
Drawn round me my pale robes of white, 

In a dark spot 
To sleep through death's long, dreamless night, 

Lone and forgot. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

"We considered the oratorio or altar the most interesting portion 
of the ruins of Palenque. * * * \y e could not but regard it as a 
holy place, dedicated to the gods, and consecrated by the religious 
observances of a past and unknown people. Comparatively the hand 
of ruin has spared it, and the great tablet, surviving the wreck of 
elements, stands perfect and entire. Lonely, deserted, and without 
any worshippers at its shrine, the figures and characters are distinct 
as when the people who reared it went up to pay their adorations 
before it. To us it was all a mystery ; silent, defying the most 
scrutinizing gaze and reach of intellect. * 

"What we had before our eyes was grand, curious, and remarka- 
ble enough. Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and 
peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages incident to 
the rise and fall of nations, reached their golden age, and perished, 
entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the 
human family were severed and lost, and these were the only 
memorials of their footsteps upon earth, We lived in the ruined 

G* 



202 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

palace of their kings ; we went up to their desolate temples and 
fallen altars ; and wherever we moved we saw the evidences of 
their taste, their skill in arts, their wealth and power. In the midst 
of desolation and ruin we looked back to the past, cleared away the 
gloomy forest, and fancied every building perfect, with its terraces 
and pyramids, its sculptured and painted ornaments, grand, lofty, 
and imposing, and overlooking an immense inhabited plain ; we 
called back into life the strange people who gazed at us in sadness 
from the walls ; pictured them, in fanciful costumes and adorned 
with plumes of feathers, ascending the terraces of the palace and the 
steps leading to the temples; and often we imagined a scene of 
unique and gorgeous beauty and magnificence, realizing the creations 
of oriental poets, the very spot which fancy would have selected for 
the "Happy Valley" of Rasselas. In the romance of the world's 
history nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle 
of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost ; 
discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and 
without even a name to distinguish it. Apart from every thing 
else, it was a mourning witness to the world's mutations. 

•Nations melt 
From Power's high pinnacles, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go/ " 

Stephens's Travels in Central America, 



Amidst this dense and wavy wood, 
These wild birds' melody, 

Death rears, in regal solitude, 
A throne in mystery ; 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 203 

And fanes and temples prostrate lie, 

Beneath decay's dark pall, 
Proclaiming — ah ! too mournfully, 

A nation's rise and fall. 

Here mould-clad lies the royal hearth, 

The monarch's gorgeous home ; 
The shrine where knelt the proud of earth, 

And many a fallen dome — 
A sepulchre — a buried crown, 

Where Death doth vigil keep, 
By those who calmly have lain down 

To their eternal sleep — 

The sculptured urn, the breathing bust, 

By burning Genius wrought, 
Arise amidst the mouldering dust — 

Stern chronicles of thought ; 
And through the dim veil of decay 

Departed splendors shine, 
And relics of a brighter day 

Survive the wreck of time. 

As if in mockery of decay, 
A rose smiles on yon tomb, 



204 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And cypresses, in dark array, 

Hang round their shadowy gloom ; 

Deep tones come on the swelling breeze, 
Of nature's minstrelsy ; 

Wild anthems warble from the trees, 
But bring no tale of thee. — 

Wake ! oh ye slumbering ruins, wake ! 

Arise, ye desolate ; 
And from oblivion's tomb, oh, break 

The mystery of thy fate ! 
Send forth upon the echo's breath, 

Ye long-deserted halls, 
The tale of wo, and blood, and death, 

Of thy beleaguered walls ! 

Rise ! thou dark spirit of decay, 

Burst from thy gloomy cell, 
Tell by what hand, or in what way, 

A mighty city fell ! — 
Tell me if shepherds once dwelt here, 

Or warriors fierce and bold, 
A desert race, or Turk, or Seer, 

Or Israel's tribes of old ? 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 

Oh ! say, if here the holy fire 

Was o'er these altars shed ; 
If Priest or Prophet struck the lyre, 

Or hallowed victim bled ; 
Around this consecrated shrine 

If thousands gathering trod, 
And upward swelled the song divine, 

And bent the knee to God ? 

No history chronicles thy tale, 

Or minstrel in his song 
Thy battles fierce, or shout, or wail, 

Or chivalry hath sung; 
But moat, and tower, and sculptured pier^ 

And battlement, speak loud 
That glory's footsteps lingered here, 

The mighty and the proud : 

But o'er thy wrongs, and doleful tale, 

Whatever was thy renown, 
Fate long hath drawn her mystic veil,— 

Thy glory hath gone down ; 
And all that human eye can scan 

Of thee— O Pile ! of yore, 
Is, once were here the haunts of man^ 

Thou wast, and art no more. 



205 



206 RECORDS OP THE HEART. 



DREAMS OF ITALY. 



{£ E tanto crebbe con lo studio quesfca disposizione che talvolta mi si accendeva 
nel petto lo strano e tormentoso desiderio di vedere, e ragionare con alcuna larva 
degli antichi, evocandola dagli abissi della morte." Le Notti Romans. 



I. 

Why do my sad thoughts rove to thee, 

And linger aye, fair Italy ? — 

Thy winding vales, and green-wood dells, 

Of flowers the fragrant citadels ; 

Thy balmy groves, thy cloudless sky, 

Thy mouldering tombs, and ancient halls, 
Where Art has hung the storied walls 

With works of immortality, 

I have not seen, and yet thou art 

The land that haunts my dreaming heart. 

In hours of wild imagining, 

I turn to thee — O mournful land ! — - 
The home of all that's sad or bland ! 

As to a beauty sorrowing, 

Bereft of all that life endears, 

Yet smiling through her sunny tears : 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 207 

The spot where death has reared his shrine 

Among the things that were divine : 

And oft above thy dusky bier, 

In dreams, I pour a mourner's tear. 

E'en as I sit and write of thee, 

Though 'tween us flows the fearful sea, 

I feel thy soft airs fan my brow, 

And hear the breezes sighing low 

Through many a blooming myrtle tree, 

And citron bower beside the lea ; 

I hear thy limpid fountains gush, 

The streamlets down the mountains rush, 

The blithesome birds upon the wing, 

The Improvisatrices sing, 

And small feet on the moonlit strand 

Tripping the graceful saraband. 



II 



Yes, thou dost seem like that blest spot 

To me — O hallowed Italy ! 
Which none have ever quite forgot — 

The haunts of budding infancy, — 
Where childhood laughed away its hours, 
And left its smile upon the flowers. 



. i 



208 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



III. 

The least memento borne from thee, 
The page that tells thy history ; 
Thy wild romance, thy thrilling story, 
Thy bloody feuds, and faded glory ; 
The birth, the fame, the lasting wrong, 
And wailing of thy sons of song ; 
Thy language, that is softer still 
Than the low music of the rill 
That wends along some fairy lea,— 
All have a mystic charm for me. 



IV. 

And oft, when sleep each sense doth chain 
In the mysterious spell of dreams, 
I walk along thy flowing streams, 

Or by thy blue expanding main, 

Where aloes rear their blooming heads, 
And crystal streamlets onward leap 

O'er golden vines and violet beds, 
Soon wedding with the rolling deep ; 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 209 

Where flowerets smile, the birds sing free, 

The sun shines ever cloudlessly, 

Until I reach decaying Rome : 

Reclining there upon a tomb, 

I raise the misty veil of time 

And view her in meridian prime, 

Before her era of decline, 

Ere she had known a Catjline : 

Her marble founts, her splendid domes, 

Her monuments and gorgeous homes, 

And Lupercals ; her pageantry, 

Her ranks of prancing cavalry; 

And then behold these scenes sublime 

Go drifting down the tide of time; 

Unpeopled temples round me lying, 

Proud statues from their base o'erthrown, 

Midst palaces the rude winds sighing 
The solemn dirge of ages flown : 

Or give an ear to the sad moan 
Of those who from the spirit-land 

Have come to weep o'er glories gone- 
All that was mighty, holy, grand. 



210 RECORDS OF THE HEAR T 



V. 



With folded arms, and furrowed brow, 
Stern Marius moves before me slow ; 
Then pensively among the tombs, 
Wrapped in his toga, Cato comes, 
Along each gloomy winding walks, 
And of her former splendor talks, 
Deplores her altered, ruined state, 
And weeps above his country's fate. 



VI. 

I see her traitors by me glide, 
The blood gush from great Caesar's side, 
And when his noble form they felled, 
His bleeding vesture upward held : 
And hear the tones of Antony 
Moving the crowd to mutiny ; 
And coming from the forum near, 
The voice of Tully soft and clear, 

Pleading her cause 

With loud applause ; 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 211 

The sprightly Horace read his ode 
To suit his audience' changing mood, — 
When Virgil's deep and flowing lyre 
Awakes my spirit's latent fire, 
And leads me to Lavinia's shore, 

Where cities thick in ruin lie, 1 
Strewing the wide Campagna o'er 

With many a classic memory ; 
There dwell upon the sacred ground, 
Where genius peopled vale and mound 2 
With heroes bold and deeds of strife, 
And gave to dust eternal life : 
Survey where Pliny's villa stood, 3 
Along the green Laurentine wood ; 
Where Cicero, Lucretia dwelt, 4 
Her breast the self-aimed poniard felt ; 
The Saracens o'er meadows damp, 

In many a savage glittering rank, 
Beleaguering the Alban camp ; 

Mountains of dead all cold and dank : 
The conquered army fast receding ; 
Stern warriors on the red field bleeding ; 
Proud cities now in queenly pride, 
Then floating down time's murky tide, 



212 H E (J O H I) S OF THE HEART 



Wliere empires in decay lie hid, 
Review again the iEneid. 



VII. 

Thence to Torquato's cell I go, 
And hear his mournful tale of wo, 
Of Este's rage — Alphonso's ire, 
That he presumptuous should aspire 
So high as Leonora's hand, 
Or dare resist his high command. 
Next Dante in the exile's land, 
His snowy locks by zephyrs fanned, 
Weeping along the desert wold, 
All pale and haggard, I behold ; 
Or on the rock he often sought, 5 
Near the old castle Tulmino, 
Or midst the hills of Gubbio, 
Moulding imperishable thought ; 
And linger long in Petrarch's grove 
To hear him sing immortal love, 
His sorrows to the breezes pour, 
And chant his Laura's beauty o'er. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 213 



VIII 



Why my sad thoughts do rove to thee — 
O bright, enchanting Italy ! 
Enamored thus, I cannot say,- — 

But oft, methinks, when sleep controls 
The sense, the spirit steals away 

To mingle with congenial souls, 
Who down from some more hallowed sphere 
Descending, come to linger near 
The cherished spot which gave them birth, 
And guard the pure and loved on earth, 



214 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



NOTES 



Note 1, Sect. VI. p. 211. 



4 Where cities thick in ruin lie. 



" Between Terracina and Visterna on the road to Rome, a dis- 
tance of thirty miles, once stood, it is said, twenty-three Volscian 
cities. 

" Invasions of the Saracens, in the middle ages, aided the pro- 
gress of destruction ; and we have now to seek, amid unpeopled 
woods, noxious swamps, and pastures on which graze buffaloes, for 
the cities of Latinus, Turnus, and iEneas." — Spalding's History of 
Italy and the Italian Islands. 



Note 2, Sect. VI. p. 211. 
" Where genius peopled vale and mound." 

" There is no district in Latium," says Spalding, " more interest- 
ing than the region about the mouth of the Tiber, the scene of the 
last half of the iEneid. In the magic mirror of poetry, we behold 
here the glade of the Laurentine Forest, and tread with solemn 
pleasure those solitary woods and meadows, which the power of 
genius has peopled with heroic beauty. Here was the site of the 
classical Ostia, and Laurentum, the city of Father Latinus/' 



FUGITIVE PIECES, 215 

Note 3, Sect. VI. p. 211. 
"Survey where Pliny's villa stood.'' 

Castle Fusano, an old turreted mansion, situated on the Cam- 
pagna, in a clump of tall pines, a little to the south of the swamp, 
has been fixed upon by most antiquaries as Pliny's villa. 

Note 4, Sect. VI. p. 211. 
"Where Cicero, Lucretia dwelt.'* 

"Near the southern frontier of Latium, the columns and frag 
ments of Cicero's paternal mansion lie scattered in the cloisters and 
kitchen-gardens of the little church and monastery of San Domenico 
Abate. 

" The bank is still green, though less shady than when his pleas- 
ure-ground covered it : the seats on which he sat, with his brother 
and Atticus, have crumbled away ; but ' the lofty poplars' may yet 
be found." 

" Eleven miles from the modern gate, we should look for Collatia, 
the dwelling of Lucretia." — Spalding's History of Italy, fyc. 

Note 5, Sect. VII. p. 212. 

" Or on the rock he often sought, 
Near the old castle Tulmino, 
Or midst the hills of Gubbio, 
Moulding imperishable thought." 



216 RECORDS OP TH E HEART. 

" In the district of Gubbio, according to the Latin inscription 
under a marble bust of him against a wall in one of the chambers, 
Dante is recorded to have written a considerable portion of the 
'Divina Commedia.' Near the castle of Tulmino, a rock has been 
pointed out as a favorite resort of the inspired poet, while engaged in 
that marvellous and melancholy composition. 

" There, nobly pensive, Dante sat and thought." 

" Marius, banished from his country, and resting upon the ruins 
of Carthage, may have appeared a more august and mournful object; 
but Dante, in exile, want, and degradation, on a lonely crag, medi- 
tating thoughts, combining images, and creating a language for both 
in which they should for ever speak, presents a far more sublime 
and touching spectacle of fallen grandeur renovating itself under 
decay. 

" Marius, having c mewed his mighty youth,' flew back to Rome 
like the eagle to his quarry, surfeited himself with vengeance, 
and died in a debauch of blood ; leaving a name to be execrated 
through all generations. Dante did not return to Florence ; living 
or dead, he did not return : but his name, cast out and abhorred as it 
had been, stands the earliest and the greatest of a long line of Tuscan 
poets, rivalling the most illustrious of their country, not excepting 
those of even Rome and Ferrara." — Lives of the Eminent Men of 
Jtaly, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 217 



STANZAS 



WRITTEN ON READING GRISWOLd's 'POETS OF AMERICA.' 



'Tis the doom 



Of spirits of my order to be racked 

In life; to wear their hearts out, and consume 

Their days in endless strife, and die alone. 

Lord Byron's Prophecy of Dante, Canto I. 



I. 

Yes, here they are — the records of that band, 
The wayward children of sweet poesy, 
Collected safely by one fostering hand, 
From the dark waves of time's oblivious sea. 
The living, whatsoe'er their merits be, 
Are here — a simple narrative of those 
Who from the sorrowings of earth are free, 
Their songs that lofty thoughts to us disclose, 
While they in dreamless sleep lie hushed in calm repose. 

II. 

Here are the young, the old, the small, the great, 

Whose souls with the immortal flame did glow; 

10 



21S RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Each one hath something mournful in his fate. 
Some grief; and all, a common chord of wo, 
That bids the sympathetic tears to flow : 
Many have met the poet's general doom, 
Of misery and despair — death's early blow; 
And some, enveloped in a ceaseless gloom, 
Are struggling sadly on to reach a later tomb. 



III. 



And some have torn the laurel from their brow, 

For lucre midst the busy throng have pressed — - 

No longer to Apollo's sway they bow ; 

A few, by the pure breath of fame caressed, 

Serenely on Parnassus' summit rest ; 

Some yet are toiling up his rugged side, 

And with their rivals hard the prize contest, 

Hoping to reach the top, and honored bide, 

Beneath his peaceful shades, through life's calm eventide. 



IV. 



What buds of promise live collected here ! 
That fell ere they had felt the genial sun 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 219 

Or soft reviving breath of zephyr near — 
One cheering smile by their young beauty won. 
How many flowers, when first their reign begun " 
Of gloriousness, were suddenly entombed ; 
How many, ere their flowering half was done, 
By chilling blasts, to fade were sadly doomed; 
How few of them — alas ! through their full season bloomed. 



It is a mournful task to scan the fate, 
The wretchedness, and bitter suffering, 
And calumny, and wo, and wrong, and hate, 
The thousand pangs the tender bosoms wring, 
Of those whom fate or fame hath forced to sing : 
Sad, solitary, shivering here they stay, 
For ever panting for some purer spring 
Of light, but drinking no congenial ray, 
Until they quench their thirst at founts of heavenly day. 



VI 



And yet they are God's own peculiar race, 
Sent here for a beneficent design, 



220 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Amidst aspersions, want, and oft disgrace, 
To be interpreters of things divine, 
To dimmer eyes to open thought's deep mine, 
And soothe the aching hearts by sorrow riven ; 
To elevate, awaken, and refine 
The wasting talents that to man are given, 
With song to gladden earth and light the way to heaven, 



VII 



Kind Fosterer of the tried and tuneful race, 
Thy hand hath done a just and generous deed ; 
Impartially thou here hast given his place 
To each, and, void of blame, to all their meed ; 
The flowerets kindly culled from every weed : 
For this the living will thy name revere, 
And bless thee wheresoe'er thy way may lead; 
The spirits of the dead will hover near, 
And guard thy wandering steps thro' dangers dark and drear, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 221 



THE MAIDEN'S GRIEF 



They sin who tell us love can die. 

Souths y. 



I know it is a vain wild dream, 
The love for thee I've cherished ; 

I would, as die the tender leaves, 
That it with hope had perished ; — 

But oh ! love dieth not with hope, 

It lights her funeral pyre, 
Which smoulders in the ruined heart, 

A slow consuming fire. 

I do not ask thee e'er to take 

This stricken heart of mine : 

t 

I only tell thee of its flame, 
And that it all is thine : 

I do not ask thee to forego 
The charms that I have not, 



222 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Proud wealth, and Beauty's witchery, 
To share my lonely lot. 

I have no hope in loving thee — 

But oh ! I ask to love, 
And be the gentle guardian 

To lead thy thoughts above. 

Thy form is ever in my sleep, 

Thy voice I ever hear — 
Thine is the name I breathe to heaven 

When bent in silent prayer. 



FUGITIVE PIECES 



223 



THE REQUEST 

When this life shall cease to be, 
Lay me not in this cold clime, 
Where there is no melody 

In the birds' or zephyr's chime ; 
Where the icy mountains frown, 
Where the moon looks bleakly down- 
Hearts are far too cold to weep 
O'er the humble poet's sleep. 

Bear me to my sunny land, 
Where the airs are pure and bland ; 
Where the birds are ever sinking, 
Fountains clearly, softly ringing, 
Flowerets opening into bloom 
Breathing every where perfume ; 
Where the Chesapeake is flowing, 
Where the placid skies are glowing, 
Where my father's ashes lie, 
Where the guardian seraphs sigh, 



224 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

And above the early dead 

Angels' dewy tears are shed, — 

Lay me in my silent sleep, 

Where warm hearts will come and weep, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 225 



MY SWEET GUITAR. 

When stars are burning in the sky, 

The lonely moon pursues her flight, 
And wakes again the memory 

Of faded years and sorrow's blight — 
The thousand spells — the hallowed dreams, 

That fleet as rainbow hues depart, 
Leaving behind no cheering beams 

To light this lone benighted heart, 
And clouds eclipsing Love's pure star, 
I come to thee, my sweet guitar ! 

For when my heart is sick and lone, 

And pines for friendship's soothing word 
There is a magic in thy tone, 

A sympathy in thy low chords, 
That banishes my spirit's dole, 

Bids every gloomy thought depart, 
And breathes such joy into my soul 

As mortals never can impart, 

Nor wealth nor fame on me confer — ■ 

My sweet— my ever-loved guitar ! 

10* 



226 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON BEING UNABLE TO FIND THE GRAVE OF MARGARET 
M. DAVIDSON, IN THE BUR Y ING-GROUND AT SARATOGA 
SPRINGS. 

July 2, 1841. 

Shade of Poesy, arise ! 

Tell me — tell me where she lies ! 

Tell me if that fragile flower, 

Blasted in its early hour ; 

If the clay that wrapped the soul, 

Whose sweet music o'er us stole 

But an hour, then died away 

Like a passing angel's lay, 

Thus, neglected and alone, 

Sleepeth here, without a stone 
To tell us where the lovely trust 
Mingles with its mother dust. 
Yonder is a gorgeous tomb, 
Where the white rose is in bloom ; 
Here a marble column stands, 
Reared and decked by kindred ham ; 
But among them hers is not — 
Genius ! — oh, how sad thy lot ! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 22' 



THE MAIDEN'S REVERY 

y Tis eve, and by this stream I stand, 
And think, departed one, of thee — 

When first thou here didst take my hand, 
And breathe thy hallowed love to me : — 

"Twas 'neath this willow's pensive brow — 

And it is here, but where art thou ? 

Years have rolled by with rapid flight, 
And grief has been upon my way ; 

The stars and moon look down as bright ; 
The earth is clad with flowers as gay ; 

And green and verdant every bough 

As on that night — but where art thou ? 

The hills are here, the mountains blue, 
The vales, the bowers of roses fair, 
The nightingale, the zephyrs too, * 

This little streamlet, soft and clear, 
And murmuring low and sweetly now 
As on that night — but where art thou ? 



22S RECORDS OF THE HEART 

I'll question thus no more my love, 
But lift my streaming eyes awhile 

Up to the starry skies above, 
And bask in thy angelic smile ; 

For well I know, beloved one, now 

In yon bright heaven abidest thou, 



FUGITIVE PIECES 



229 



THE SPOT I LOVE BEST 



Thither where he lies buried ! 

That single spot is the whole world to me, 

Coleridge, 



There is one only spot on earth, 

That holds my heart beyond all other- 
It is the place that gave me birth — 
Where lonely dwells my aged mother 

And where the pensive willow weeps, 
The streamlet calmly ever flows 

Beside the sod where sweetly sleeps 
My father in his last repose. 



230 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



ELLA, 



OR 



LOVE'S SPELL. 



" Weep for the love that cannot change 
Like some unholy spell, 
It hangs upon the life that loved, 
So vainly, and so well." 



Strange I should have loved thee ever 

Faithless, fickle as thou art; 
Stranger still, false one, that never 

Can I wrench thee from my heart. 
Scorn, like shaft shot from its quiver 

Which is dipped in fatal bane, 
And doth send death's icy shiver 

Through the heart and every vein ; 
Lone neglect, the stern decision 

That thy presence bids me flee ; 
Wrong, and hate, and cold derision — 

These I all have borne from thee, 
Till my brow in youth's fresh hour 

Is by clouds of grief o'ercast, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 231 

And I'm with'ring like the flower 

O'er which sweeps the simoom's blast ; 
Yet, with every kind emotion 

That can move the gentle breast, 
With all woman's deep devotion, 

Still my heart, (that can be blest 
But while incense o'er thee breathing, 

Whence it only solace finds,) 
As the oak the ivy wreathing, 

Every tendril round thee twines. 
Every thing thy impress beareth 

Hath the hallowed spell of thee ; 
Look or smile of thine endeareth 

Meanest, vilest things to me : 
Yet I loathe my soul that clingeth 

Round the worthless thing thou art, 
Curse the memory that bringeth 

Image of thee to my heart. 
Oft I've sworn to dash the chalice 

From my eager thirsting lips, 
Where my soul will seek its solace, 

Though it only wormwood sips : 
I have tried to cease this pining, 

Rouse my with'ring pride, — but vain, 



232 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

By some skilful, deep designing, 
Turn my love to cold disdain ; 

But such efforts make thee dearer 

To her whom Love's spell hath bound, 

Draw the fatal chord still nearer 

Round the heart thy scorn doth wound. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 231* 



THE LOVERS, 



Their grief was silent and unfathomable. 



They met, and looked into each other's eyes ; 

In hers, as in a mirror clear, he saw 

A paradise, and she in his beheld 

A bright and sunny world, where her pure soul 

Could only light, and life, and joyance find ; 

But th' serpent came between them ; then, 

Like thunder-riven rocks, apart they dwelt, 

Silent, and cold, and withering, until 

Their hearts were dead, and they went to the grave, 

Their misery to each other unrevealed. 



234 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 



TO E. 



Thou'rt gone from this cold world of ours, 

A resident above ; 
An angel midst unfading bowers, 

And songs of changeless love ; 
And com'st no more at eventide 

To lay thy hand in mine, 
With smiles to cheer our own fire-side, 

And bid me not repine ; 
And yet, lost one, thou art to me 
More than the living all can be — 
A light that shines from heaven afar, 
My morning and my evening star. 

I ne'er shall hear again on earth 

Thy footsteps' blithesome bound, 

Nor meet thee by the parent hearth, 
When there we kneel around. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 235 

No ! never more shall see below, 

Beloved, thy form so fair, 
Thy lily cheek and snowy brow, 

Thy wealth of golden hair ; 
And yet, lost one, thou art to me 
More than the living all can be — 
A light that shines from heaven afar, 
My morning and my evening star. 

Around me — near me — every where 

I hear thy angel voice ; 
Sweet accents from a viewless sphere, 

Bidding my heart rejoice : 
At morn or eve, in vale or grove, 

Where'er my footsteps tend, 
Down from thy starry realms above 

Thy meek eyes on me bend. 
And thus, lost one, thou art to me 
More than the living all can be — 
A light that shines from heaven afar, 
My morning and my evening star, 



236 RECORDS OP THE HEART 



TO THE A. 



Her love was registered in Heaven." 



By day, by night, in weal or wo, 
Where'er on earth my lot may be ; 
'Neath orient skies — midst polar snow, 

I'll still love thee. 

If it be mine to dwell afar 

In distant lands beyond the sea, 

Where savages untutored are, 

I'll still love thee. 

Or in my home near thee to dwell, 
A simple child of minstrelsy, 
And win the world with song's sweet spell 

I'll still love thee. 

If ever in the festal throng 
I go, midst sounds of revelry, 
And Beauty's smile, and dance, and song, 

I'll still love thee. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 237 

Or if the waves of sorrow roll 
Around me wild, tempestuously, 
And overwhelm at last my soul, 

I'll still love thee. 

And when upon the couch of death, 

And time is closing unto me, 

My latest prayer — my latest breath 

I'll breathe for thee. 



238 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



TO MARY. 

Enriched a mind, 
Where'er we find, 
With knowledge, virtue pure ; 
A gentle heart 
Devoid of art, 
In innocence secure ; 

A golden curl, 

Or neck of pearl, 

Or hand of snowy white ; 

And brow as fair, 

And cheek as clear, 

As snow drops in the light ; 

An eye of blue 

Or ebon hue, 

Beaming with heavenly fire, 

And modest mien 

In maiden sheen, 

We cannot but admire. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 239 

But when we see, 

Maid, as in thee, 

These truly all combine, 

We feel Love's thrill 

Our bosoms fill, 

And bow at Beauty's shrine. 



210 RECORDS F X II E 11 E A R T. 



I FEEL ALONE. 



The light of happiness is in the heart.' 



I go where Beauty's cheek is smiling, 

Around the social hearth, 
And song and music are beguiling 

Fond hearts in gentle mirth, 

And feel alone. 

I walk along the crowded street 
Amidst the glittering throng, 

And pleasant smiles and greetings meet 
From those who've loved me long, 
And feel alone. 

Oft muse along the water's side, 

Where buoyant vessels go 
Like living things adown the tide, 

And skiffs dart to and fro, 

And feel alone. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 241 

And listen to the sweet birds singing 

In merry, merry glee, 
The fountains through the green woods ringing 

And leaping sportively, 

And feel alone, 

Then onward wind from hill to dale, 

Midst scenes more wild and rude, 
That still to cheer me ever fail — 

My heart's a solitude, 

Forlorn and lone, 

I gaze upon the quiet sky, 

In starry splendor dressed, 
And view beyond with fancy's eye 

A world where angels rest, 

Yet feel alone. 

At any other time than this 

These would my spirit cheer, 
And animate it with the bliss 

That becks me in yon sphere, 

When I feel lone, 



11 



242 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

But since the voice of that dear one, 

- 

That Heaven has destined here 
To guide my weary footsteps on, 
Falls not upon mine ear, 

I feel alone. 

And not till he again shall come 
Can this sad heart know bliss, 

My weary spirit reassume 
Its wonted cheerfulness, 

And not feel lone, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 243 



LINES ON SEEING THE INCONSTANT 

WEEPING. 

'Tis guilt ! the canker-worm that clings 

Its deadly fangs around thy heart, 
And o'er thy soul its mildew flings, 

And bids thy earthly peace depart. 

Thy brow, false one ! is pale and wan, 

Thy bosom heaves with bitter sighs- 
Ay, dost thou feel now thus forlorn ? — 
Hast learned the slighted one to prize ? 

Alas ! 'tis sad, but no less true, 

That gems when ours lose half their gloss, 

Though bright as heaven may be their hue — - 
And gold possessed is deemed but dross. 

The heart thou mourn'st thou hast possessed, 

Its every holy thought was thine ; 
It sought in thee but to be blessed, 

Thv bosom was its earthlv shrine. 



244 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

False one ! thou couldst not prize it then, 
Its hallowed love was spurned by thee — 

That heart can ne'er be thine again — 
Thy falsehood bade it thence be free. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 245 



WHEN WE GIVE UP THE DEAD 

Around the couch may hover Death, 
And steal away the parting breath ; 
The sheet and shroud in pallid fold 
May wrap our prostrate friends and cold, 
Yet 'tis not then we give them up, 
And taste grief's bitterest cup. 

Their forms are in the coffin laid, 
And earth's last sacred rite is paid ; 
The lid is closed, the grating screw 
For ever shuts them from our view, 
Yet 'tis not then we give them up, 
And taste grief's bitterest cup. 

But when the grave we gather round, 
And lay them in the cold, damp ground, 
And o'er its dark edge eager bend, 
And hear the rumbling earth descend,— 
Ah ! then it is we give them up, 
And taste grief's bitterest cup, 



246 RECORDS OF THE HEART, 



THE RUIN. 

Here once were gathered round thy hearth 

The bright, the young, the gay, 
The joyous heart of buoyant mirth, 

The head of silvery gray, 
And woman's smile, and man's caress, 

And childhood's laughing glee, 
The maiden in her bridal dress, 

Were often known to thee. 

And brightly through the festal hall 

The cheek of Beauty glowed, 
And Music stirred the hearts of all, 

The sparkling goblet flowed ; 
And as was sipped the brimming cup, 

And glared the inebriate eye, 
Loud on the midnight air went up 

The wild festivity. 

Here, too, the widow mourned her lord, 
The orphan pined his lot, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 247 

And Death broke many a silken chord, 

And Beauty smiled for naught ; 
And swept the busy round of life 

Like April shadows by, 
The fierce conflicting scenes of strife, 

Man's wo and revelry. 

And here moved on the gorgeous train 

Of pompous pageantry, 
The fierce blood dancing in each vein, 

The proud heart beating free, 
The chieftain on his bounding steed, 

With plume of gaudy dye, 
The war-horse dashing at fall speed, 

The banner borne on high. 

And far o'er hill, and moat, and vale, 

Pealed loud the bugle horn, 
And deep-toned drum, and clashing mail, 

And martial clarion ; 
And fearful flashed the sabre's gleam, 

And boomed the cannon's breath, 
And bubbled warm life's crimson stream 

Along the field of death. 



248 RECORDS OF THE HEART 



A SONNET. 

Tis past the noon of night ! and I am lone, 
And mournful still : I have relived the past — - 
The visions that were far too pure to last — - 

The memories of the good and early known 

Back from the gulf of time again have flown : 
And I have held sad converse with the dear, 
Though lost, and shed the sympathetic tear, 

And clasped the hand of those for ever gone. 

Long days, and sleepless nights, and weary weeks — 
Dark Melancholy, thou hast held thy sway ! — 
Driven each pleasing thought with hope away, 

And drenched with burning floods my pallid cheeks- 

Oh ! wilt thou ne'er return — bright Poesy ! 

And from her dismal thrall my spirit free I 



FUGITIVE PIECES, 249 



THE GENERAL ON HIS BIER 

He sleeps upon his sable bier 

How calm and still ! 
No battle-cries his pulses stir — - 

No war-notes shrill. 

An hour ago, that lofty brow 

Was flushed with life, 
And from those eyes fierce flashed the glow 

Of noble strife. 

Each vein thrilled with the dancing blood 

Of courage strong, 
Whose faintest signs with fire imbued 

His soldier throng. 

That stout arm swung the sabre keen 

On the red field — 
That dauntless heart to armies then 

Disdained to yield, 



250 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

But now he lies so moveless here, 

So helplessly, 
An infant in the hour of fear 

More strong than he. 

I gaze intently on this brow — 
This lifeless whole, 

And ask where is the spirit now — 
The mighty soul, 

That gave unto this mouldering dust 

A giant's sway, 
Then, as a weed upon life's drift, 

Flung it away. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 251 



MAIDEN, SINCE I SAW THEE LAST 

Maiden, since I saw thee last, 

Shadows o'er thy life have passed — 

Tears have dimmed thy cheek's fresh rose — 

Grief hath broken thy repose — 

Lovely visions from thee sped — 

Peace for ever from thee fled. 

In thy languid eyes a beam 

Lights thy bosom's troubled stream — ■ 

Heavenly feelings cankering there — 

Hope ingulfed in deep despair, 

Fully speak thy spirit's pain : 

Thou hast loved — but loved in vain ! 

Seek no words to tell me now 
Of thy lover's faithless vow — 
Of the fiery venomed dart 
That hath pierced thy tender heart- 
Golden dreams of wedded bliss 
Whelmed in Sorrow's dark abyss, 



252 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

From the pang that ceaseless wrings 
To their depths thy spirit's strings — 
From the listlessness of life — 
From thy bosom's burning strife, 
Tears alone can give thee rest — 
Maiden, weep upon my breast ! 

Well I comprehend thy wo, 
All thy wretchedness I know — 
All the darkness of the soul, 
When the heart hath missed its goal- 
Tears alone can give thee rest — 
Weep upon this faithful breast ! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 253 



THE STORM.* 

A TRANSLATION FROM THE iENEID, BOOK I., LINE SI. 

When this he said, against the hollow rock 
With his broad weapon furiously he struck — 
The Winds rush forth, as if for War's array, 
And in vast whirlwinds sweep the port and bay ; — ■ 
Athwart the ocean from their deepest seat, 
The racrinor Eurus and the South Winds meet; 
Swift from the West thick storms in fury pour, 
And roll the mighty waves along the shore — 
Then far amid the heaven and yeasty main 
Resound the crash of masts and cries of men — 
Quickly the clouds snatch from the Trojan's eyes 
The blazing sun and all the glowing skies — 
Black Night in total darkness veils the sea — 
The thunders roar around them fearfully — 
Quick lightnings flash along the murky air, 
And Death and swift Destruction on them glare 

The ships before the awful breakers reel, 
With sudden fear JEneas' limbs congeal — 

* This is a Translation of the Latin Note at the end of Florence, 
page 45 ; but was finished too late for insertion in that place, 



254 RECORDS OF THE HEART. 

Cold horror creeps along each curdling vein, 

He groans aloud with inward grief and pain, 

And supplicating rears his hands to heaven, 

And says — " O bless'd ! thrice bless'd ! to whom 'twas given 

In battle on their native shores to fall, 

Before their fathers, 'neath proud Ilium's wall : — 

Tydides ! bravest of the Grecian train ! 

Why could I not upon the Trojan plain 

This wretched life pour forth by thy right hand, 

And rest in death among the faithful band, 

Where valiant Hector — huge Sarpedon sleep, 

Beneath Achilles' sword's relentless sweep ; 

Where Simo'is rolls beneath its bloody wave 

So many shields, and helms, and slaughtered brave!" 

And now a blustering adverse storm descends 
Against the sails, the straining canvass rends — 
Breaks all their oars — bears far away the spars, 
And rolls the mountain billows to the stars — 
Averts the lofty prow, and with the tide 
The creaking vessel broaches on her side : 
Around her now the raging breakers rise, 
And dash their liquid summits to the skies ; — 
Anon the waters yawn till sand appears, 
And rocks to fright the trembling mariners. 
Three vessels broken by the tempest's blast 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 

Upon the hidden rocks the South Winds cast, 
To whose huge backs uplifted from the wave 
The name of Altars the Italians gave, 
And three the East Winds from the billows urge 
Among the frightful shoals and foaming surge, 
And wedge them in an eddying bank of sand — 
A wretched sight to the bewildered band ! 

That which the Lycians and Orontes bore 
Before .^Eneas' eyes "a wave sw T ept o'er, 
And headlong from the poop the pilot hurled; 
Three times around the labouring vessel whirled, 
Then suddenly with fierce, voracious sweep, 
Submerged her far beneath the boiling deep. 

Her scattered crew r now float upon the brine, 
With arms of men, and household gods divine, 
And Trojan wares, and goods, and treasured store 
Which they had borne from ancient Ilium's shore; 
O'er Ilioneus' strong ship the storm prevails, 
Next that in which the brave Achates sails, 
O'er Abas' then and old Alethes' rides, 
While through their gaping seams and opening sides 
With fearful speed the hostile water glides, 

THE END. 



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